V is for Verisimilitude
by EnigmaSphinx
Summary: The Universe gives with one hand and takes with another. To mimic the truth is to give the impression of truth when the whole reality might be a lie after all. We've bumped up the rating just in case. Thank you for reading this story! To celebrate 18000 hits andto say thank you to my readers, I've added approximately 3000 words and tidied up a bit. ES
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I am still trying to perfect my writing. If this pleases you, please review. If not, then tell me why so I can improve. Thank you.-To those of you are are baffled by this posting, I am leaving the original notes in place, adding only a comment or two extra. I've reread these stories several times since originally posting them and I wanted to clean them up a bit and kind of finish them off cleanly. I posted really fast the first time around and there were some niggling details that I wanted to set straight. After the chapters are reposted, I will leave them alone. I promise. Hopefully this effort will smooth out the road, silence any hiccups that remain and settle these tales once and for all. ES -

Disclaimer: I love V4V and I hate unhappy endings. I don't own the characters, I have no right to snatch them from their legally authorised tale and plunk them into a story that I crafted. I did it anyway. I make nothing of this effort, just the pleasure of crafting something that other people might read and enjoy. Thank you.

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**Like God, I do not play with dice or believe in coincidence.**

_November 4th, moments to go..._

To lie in her arms, listening to her weeping, cut even deeper into his already agonized heart. To be still and silent as she screamed his name, the single letter filled with anguished longing and love...

Truly, this was hell.

Had she tried to remove the concealing mask, he would have been forced to stop her, but she respected his privacy despite her panic. Her hysteria deafened her to his still (albeit sluggishly) beating heart, rendered her incapable of feeling the shallow breaths that kept him from the numbness of death.

Not that it mattered at this moment. The 5th of November was drawing near and V needed to die. A revolution without a martyr was worthless. He needed to be the one to die and Evey needed to move on, to leave behind the glorified illusion of a hero, and to reclaim her new life under a new government.

That was the plan, wasn't it?

How she managed to get him aboard the train, he had no clear idea. Several times the pain had stolen his consciousness. When he woke, he was surrounded by the scent of the Scarlet Carsons. She'd made a bier for him, wreathed him the sweet velvet petals and the heady fragrance.. He lay in state as might some royal prince, but the display was for her healing since she believed him far beyond her touch.

She adjusted a flower, her fingers lingering upon the thorny stem. For a moment she hesitated, one hand brushing the cheek of the mask he wore, and then she turned away.

V's heart twisted when a strange voice broke the silence. _"You're Evey Hammond, aren't you?"_ The police officer, V's one honest man. Would he stop Evey from her task?

The lever was thrown and Evey stepped off the train before the doors closed.

V was grateful to be alone. He counted silently as the train started rolling, seconds ticking by until he was certain that the train was out of sight of the platform. Aching, he sat up, brushing aside the roses and swinging himself into a more comfortable position. There were two stops before the train reached the Houses of Parliament. V needed to be ready and his battered body was not at all willing to obey his commands. If he missed the first stop, he would only have the failsafe before he was caught in the explosion that he'd worked so hard to bring about. Surrounded by piles of fertilizer and the devices for detonation, he felt muddled. He wanted to live, didn't he? He just needed V to die a martyr to the cause of destroying Norsefire.

The first stop came too soon.

He couldn't muster the energy to get off the train. He dragged himself to the doors, clinging to the rails, waiting for the second stop. He rubbed one hand over his belly, missing his blades keenly and all too aware of the deep muscular bruising that the breastplate hadn't prevented. His fingers itched with the memory of Creedy's throat and the soft popping of the vertebra as he broke the man's neck. It was a cleaner death than the master of the Fingermen had deserved. V felt no grief over his crime. In moments, it wouldn't even be his crime anymore.

The second stop came, doors whipping open. V fell through the open space and rolled clear of the car. He had approximately 32 seconds to move into the shielded area and close the door before fire consumed the tunnel.

He forced himself to move as the train set off again.

He found the door in the dark and flung himself inside, slamming the door behind him. He could hear the music faintly from the speakers outside. As the crescendo built, he tucked himself into a corner and prayed the door held fast against the percussion of the explosions. He wished he were back on the balcony with Evey, watching the show, but he knew how many years the fireworks had waited this day.

The first explosion was detonated.

The small room he huddled in rocked and dust sifted from the rafters. V counted each ignition off in his head, riding out the bucking room. Only when he was certain that the worst had passed did he lift his head, peering out of the mask's jolly eyes to take in the damage around him.

Several chunks of masonry had worked loose, tumbled here and there across the floor. Dust tickled his nose and he sneezed violently, one physical explosion after another. He sat in stunned silence after the last one until he felt himself a buffoon for sitting there. He laughed softly. The chuckles became guffaws which became howls and he wondered if he were howling in truth. His plan had worked out so bloody well... He was alive. There was only one immediate drawback and it cut him to the quick.

_Evey._

Hours ago, he'd danced with her in the Shadow Gallery, his arms stiff and proper as he held her slender frame. She had come back to him, Beauty to his Beast, her heart shining from her eyes, her shorn hair making her seem so fragile and yet so strong. Even now, he wanted to go back to her. He ached in his soul for the balm of her presence.

He closed his eyes. She thought him a monstrosity, didn't she? He'd built the illusion so carefully. He peeled off his gloves, revealing the disfigured hands and stared at them for a long moment. Then with very little thought, he peeled the latex from his hands, destroyed the ugly burn scars and set free the smooth and natural skin of his hands. He spread them wide, examining the real flesh thoughtfully. He wondered what she would say about this particular betrayal.

Not as much as about this one, he thought, and lifted away the mask and the black silky wig. His face was still shrouded in black, a thin caul that he swept away, baring the flawless skin underneath. He knew well enough what his face looked like, knew too that the almost militarily short hair that allowed for the wig was as black as jet. He looked like his twin before the fire had stolen his features, melting them into a travesty of a human face. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

It was all over.

V was dead, his body believed immolated in the fires that shattered Parliament. Whatever passed for reporting in the morning would declare the death of Codename V and the country would pick up the pieces of their lives, seize control of their government and they might mourn him in some fashion.

It didn't matter that V had died a very long time ago or that he had spent the last twenty years making V's vengeance come to pass. He counted the labor as a tribute to one loved and missed, his other half, even as he realized that the fire that burned in him for revenge was gone. V. A childish nickname, one they'd never grown out of, since V hated his real name. Evelyn, whose only other nickname had been Evey and who'd trounced anyone who dared use the hated diminutive.

They'd been separated at one of the youth reclamation centers, housed in different quads. Unfortunately for V, his unit had been transferred to Larkhill. Tested, tortured, and used, V's fury had reached across their bond of blood and there had been no thought but to find V and help him.

_Too late, of course, too late._

V had managed to start a fire and destroy the facility, burning himself into a monster whose ruined face had turned from his twin when they had found one another. V had seen his loss reflected in his brother's perfect features and, as a result, his hatred deepened and turned inward. He became self-destructive and increasingly unpredictable. Not even their shared bond, the deeper than life connection, had brought him from the edge.

The burned man had turned to Vivian at last and begged. "Please kill me.' he asked."I am a monster, I can't even remember being human. You were always the stronger of us both; you can stop all my pain." He reached out with his ruined hands, the fingers gnarled with scars. 'You have to let me go, Viv." Vivian had refused Evelyn and V had found a way to manage the deed alone. Vivian remembered cradling his brother's dying body, much as Evey had cradled her dying love, his tears scalding his face with regret.

On his brother's corpse, he'd sworn an oath of vengeance. A vendetta for V's memory.

Vivian had become V in his brother's place, hiding his face, taking on the Guy Fawkes mask they'd both loved and feared in the childhood. For years, he'd laid his plans and, on the night of his first public blow against the hated Norsefire project, he'd run across a girl being terrorized by Fingermen. Rescuing her had seemed a fine cause, an overture to the grand gesture that would herald his movement out into the open, but when she'd looked up at him with those enormous eyes, he hesitated. He stared into that pretty face, unable to simply walk away. V'd wondered why he was so drawn to her.

When she said her name, he understood that the forces of the universe had tried to apologize or make restitution.

One Evey for another.

Vivian closed his eyes at the memory. Those luminous eyes stared at him with mute appeal, calling to the man beneath the mask, but it had already been too late to turn back from the path he'd prepared for so many years.

_Evey_, he thought with regret. _Evey._


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Thank for reviewing me! Comments make me feel that I am not doing this in vain.-edited version of chapter 2 now in place. Your opinions are sought, as always. ES

Disclaimers: I own nothing. Not the story and not the concept of V for Vendetta. Stephen is mine, I suppose, but someone (mainly me) wanted a happily ever after.

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**The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men...**

With an effort, Stephen pulled himself together, out of his memories, and hauled himself to his feet.

He had no time to waste; there was no time to relive that first glimpse into Evey's eyes. No opportunity to do more than curse the fates for bringing him back someone to fill the void his brother left behind when he took his flight into death. He winced at the freshet of pain that each movement brought. He was getting too old for vigilante work, his body simply wasn't as resilient as it had been when he'd started to create V's vendetta. Now the ones responsible for V's agony were dead and Vivian had no grief for any of them. Not even the calm and patient woman who'd been grateful for the end...

V

No, not anymore. V was dead to the world now, blown to memory's shadow under the remnants of Parliament, under the rubble of Big Ben.

He was himself again. He was Vivian Stephen Avery again. Evelyn Anton Avery was gone, vanished into the reclamation camps under the black bag of the Fingermen.

He remembered that his mum had always called them Stephen and Anton, recalled her shy smile and embarrassment when she'd apologized for the fussy family names. Only V and Viv had kept them as their secret names for one another and now no one shared the secret anymore. Sad. He scrubbed his face with his hands. He had no time to be sad.

There was too much to do.

Stiffly he located his cache of materials and took out the clothing he'd set aside for this day. It took him quite some time to drag the stained and bloody clothes from his abused body. In the light of the feeble lantern he'd had the foresight to leave here, he took an inventory of his injuries. There were several bullet wounds that needed doctoring so he dug out the small sewing kit and grimly threaded a needle. He had been forced to tend such annoyances before, an unpleasant duty but not fatal. Fortunately for him, Creedy's panic had adversely affected his aim. The mask would not have stopped a bullet, no matter what V had claimed. He cleaned himself up and set to the task of closing the deeper than superficial wounds.

It wouldn't do to present himself at the local casualty and try to explain how he'd been accidentally shot by a madman.

When he was no longer bleeding, he carefully cleaned himself off, wiping away any stray blood, and pulled on the new outfit, marveling at the soft cotton fabric. The clothes were colorful and light, nothing like the somber staid costume he had kept to as V. The blue jeans fit like a second skin, comfort in each crease. The heavy undershirt, an insulated fabric embraced his chilled body with welcome warmth and would impede any leakage of blood from any injury not perfectly closed. He donned a long-sleeved cambric shirt and then a sweater over that.

Layers were good, he thought fuzzily. Easy to peel them away if he had to run. If he'd miscalculated. He hoped to God he hadn't miscalculated. Everything else had gone so well.

He gathered up his bloodstained clothes and carried them to a small chink in the old wall. There was just enough room to wedge them inside. He forced a block of stone over them to cover them against discovery. Finally satisfied, he picked up a fresh black cape, black hat, and mask, identical copies of the thousands he'd shipped all over London. He tucked a worn wallet into his back pocket and eased out of the other exit from the room. He unlocked the padlock from the chains that held the door and tossed the key behind him into the darkness. Easing open the door, he slipped up into the fresh air, into a night filled with people and loud voices.

The crowds still lingered, even though the music had fallen silent and the explosions were finished. Stephen melted into the crowd, hiding in plain sight. The BTN was silent, screens broadcasting nothing. Stephen looked up at the nearest, wondering how the current government would try to spin this tale. They couldn't, of course. There were too many in the know now, too many to sit back in silence and let the lies roll out. Stephen sighed, feeling the weight of the world slip off his shoulders just a little. He'd done what he promised. His only regret lay somewhere near the Shadow Gallery, a slender doe-eyed girl with enormous eyes and a heart as strong as tempered thought pained him as he walked in the opposite direction.

He'd finished what he'd started for V.

The fifth of November had come with a bang. The only whimper was from the part of Stephen's heart that craved the delicately determined Evey Hammond.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: To all who have reviewed my tale, a million thanks! I hope you like where we are going.- Edited, 09/08/07, reposted for your enjoyment. The changes I made should clear up any errors I committed in the rapid posting I did before. I hope that they are not too glaring and that you enjoy the ride as much as you did before. ES

Disclaimer: I own nothing of V for Vendetta but I wish I did.

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**The Cabinet of Curiosities**

_July the 25__th_

Eight months had passed since the fateful night of November 5th.

England had changed, the government had altered, the world was new again. Many people who'd suffered under the old regime were regaining their lives, rebuilding the tatters into something durable and beautiful. A cure had been found for the St. Mary's virus' successors, based on notes in a woman's diary and samples she had protected for decades. The world was a new frontier again as places long quarantined were reopened to settlement.

Evey Hammond was still sought after for interviews about the enigma V, despite the fact that she held her silence on everything but his political views. The new networks, the free channels that rose up in challenge against the BTN, pestered her most but Evey did not seek out the limelight. She was invited to all the best parties, her face synonymous with the movement that had sprung from the bombing of Parliament.

Tonight, she was scheduled to appear at the unveiling of a new exhibit in the British Museum. The exhibit was dedicated to the idea of V and his campaign to unseat the Norsefire party. The glitterati were all to be in attendance, a resurrection of life as it had been before the political Puritanism of Norsefire. There would be wine and food and music, things that had become luxuries or even forbidden items in the recent past and were no longer demonized. Formal dress and former glory filled the room with color and conversation.

Among the tuxedoes and glamourous ball gowns, Stephen was one man among many dressed in evening wear, inconspicuous in his costume and content to hover on the periphery of the crowd. As he accepted a glass of champagne from a waitress, he wondered what had possessed him to come to this affair. The question was simply answered although it was not the answer he truly wanted to hear.

Stephen had promised himself that he simply hoped to see Evey again, that simply looking upon her in her new role would satisfy the ache in his chest and free him to go back to his quiet life in the country.

He hated crowds, the constant noise grated upon his ears after nearly 20 years of quiet. He had never minded Evey's intrusion into his world; she had been light and air and sunshine in the Shadow Gallery. As he moved around the room, waiting for the moment the exhibit would open, he scanned the sea of so many people, looking for one particular face, one set of luminous eyes, one slender body.

Suddenly clapping erupted, drawing his attention to the far end of the hall.

Evey had arrived, dressed simply in black, her face shining with a smile as flashbulbs erupted like fireworks. She stood with her hand on the arm of the young detective she had once upon a time maced to help V escape capture. Dominic Stone squired her with a sober expression, his arm around Evey's waist. They hesitated while the cameras caught their image, smiling when asked, and then Dominic ushered Evey past the press and into the room. They were given glasses of champagne and inundated with well-wishers. Stephen leaned back against the wall behind him and watched.

He was surprised at the sudden stirring of hatred he felt for the younger man.

How dare the upstart have his arm around Evey's waist, turned attentively to her, that bloody smile on his face? Evey held herself regally, pale under the bright lights, her hair curling around her cheeks, fluffed with womanly vanity. She was dressed to the nines, her waist so slender, her arms bare in the sleeveless gown. Stephen watched Dominic touch her tenderly on one arm and the flute of champagne in his hand cracked under the tension of his sudden grasp. He startled, glancing down at his hand in surprise before passing the broken glass to a waiter going by with a murmured apology. What the hell was he thinking?

He didn't belong here.

He should have simply ignored the invitation, sent his apologies, and stayed home, but the sight of her name on the card had sealed his fate. He'd accepted and here he stood, separated from the one thing he wanted most in the world by every reason that could exist to keep them apart. She believed V was dead. V _was_ dead, of course, and Evey had never even met him. She was free of the imprisonment his alter ego put her through and she was as beautiful as ever. She had done well for herself, was healed nicely if the young man's hand splayed upon the small of her back meant anything.

Stephen watched Evey during the opening of the Gallery. Nothing that was said pierced the humming in his ears. Evey cut the ribbon at the doors of the new hall and the crowd pushed its way inside. He moved along when he had to, avoiding the crush of bodies. When he saw the contents of the room, he blanched, his heart pounding against his ribs in sudden distress.

The Shadow Gallery had been remade.

The pictures he'd painstakingly rescued, the art, the luxuriant carpets….The room seemed to shrink around him. He felt a sense of horror, a violation of everything he held dear.

For a moment, he staggered, catching himself so quickly that no one should have noticed it.

Someone had gone through his beloved gallery, catalogued and crated the items he'd treasured. Now they stood here, naked under the fluorescent lighting, out in the open for people to gawk at. He was appalled at the realization that they were here because of their connection to V. Not because they were fine and beautiful things that deserved to be looked at and treasured but because he had saved them from the censors.

Someone spoke but the words were gibberish. An outbreak of applause sounded as a large glass case in the center of the room was unveiled. The case held a mannequin dressed as V, the vicious blades at it's waist, hands fisted on its hips. The white mask, the Guy Fawkes mask, shone from the case, it's perpetually jolly grin grotesque. Stephen stared for a moment and then slipped out a side door into the welcoming darkness outside.

In the fresh open air, he stood under the starry sky and closed his eyes. He felt hideous, the display inside was a parody of all he believed in. V was meant to die on November 5th. Nothing was supposed to remain of him. Yet there he stood in mawkish effigy a few short yards away. Stephen sucked in a breath of air, tried to steady his rocking world and remember where he was, what he was there for. Suddenly a voice came to him from nearby.

"Evey? Evey, are you alright?" The young detective sounded anxious.

"Oh, God," Evey gasped, her voice raw and shrill with pain. "Oh, God, Dominic, they didn't tell me… I never thought…" She sobbed, the sound harsh in the quiet. "Have you any idea of how that felt, to look up and see that.." She was crying, trying to stifle it but failing. "Oh my God!"

"I'll get you a drink, Evey, and a napkin. Wait right here for me." Dominic sounded desperate. "Will you be alright for a moment?"

She didn't answer but the man's footsteps moved away. Stephen held his breath for a heartbeat. They didn't know he was here. If he stayed still, they would never know he'd overheard them.

Every sobbed again, her grief battering at his restraint. He remembered her holding his body on the platform, her desperate calling of his name, the name she knew. His heart remembered the agony in her voice, the so urgent tugging of her hands on his clothes.

_"We can stop your bleeding!"_

_"Oh, please don't."_

She wept now as then, like a child who'd been slapped.

"Oh, V," she whispered hoarsely. "They made you into a man, not an idea. That side of you. Oh, they've stolen it from me. They put you on display. I'm so sorry." She cried harder and the sound tore at him, cut him as deeply as any of Creedy's bullets. He reacted without allowing himself to think, crossing the small balcony silently until he stood behind her. He ached to reach out and gather her up but refrained.

"Miss, are you alright?" he asked, softening his voice to a bare whisper of sound.

She spun to face him, tear-filled eyes wide but unafraid. He made no move closer, just watched her. She searched his face and tried to get control of herself. "The display," she said, voice cracking. "They didn't tell me…"

He swept off his jacket. "You seem to have had a shock," he advised her. "Here, slip this on. You need the warmth now." When she didn't move, he sighed and stepped forward. As he slung the jacket over her shoulders, she nearly disappeared in it, it was far larger than she was. "Would you rather I left you alone?"

She stared up at him, enormous eyes full of pain. "Please don't," she begged. "I can't bear to be alone now. I always end up waiting for..." Her voice trailed off. "I don't want to be alone." She shivered violently.

"Would you prefer to go inside again?"

"No!" The refusal was immediate and sharp.

"You are still shaking," he pointed out. "You need warmth and perhaps a stiff drink." He tilted his head, hearing the strings beginning to play inside. "Do you like music? They are starting up inside."

Her expression went soft. "Music. Yes, I like music." Her voice was distant and Stephen saw something flicker over her face in the darkness but he could not identify it. She reached out to take his hand. "My name is Evey. You're very kind."

"Stephen Avery," he said politely. She squeezed his fingers.

"Mr. Avery, am I keeping you from anyone?" She smiled hopefully through her tears. "Are you here alone?"

"Yes, I came here alone." He tried to follow where she was going but her shift of mood muddled him. "Why do you...?"

"Do you want to leave alone?" she asked shyly. Stephen's brows lifted in surprise.

"I had not considered the possibility," he confessed. "But if you are offering to accompany me, Miss Evey, I would have to be a deaf and blind monk to refuse you." He bowed over her hand. "You don't seem concerned that I might be a homicidal maniac."

That made her giggle. "You don't seem worried that I might be one, either." She stepped closer to him. "Mr. Avery, I would very much like to run away from this circus. Will you accompany me?"

His arm slipped around her shoulders, delighting in the feel of her so close. "As my lady wishes," he said gallantly. "Let us go then, you and I," he quoted.

"Eliot, Mr. Avery?" He led her from the balcony, treasuring every moment that he could touch her so freely.

"One of my favorites," he concurred. "Weren't you with someone? A handsome young man?"

She shook her head. "I don't particularly care for young men," she said without looking up. Her slender figure slipped closer to him, sheltering under his arm.

He laid his arm over her slender shoulders protectively. "Are you certain that he won't be upset with your departure, Miss Evey? He shan't be worried about you?" She glanced up, doe-eyed, as the light of a lantern fell over her face.

"Dom's a good friend," she replied. "Just a friend who agreed to escort me tonight."

He blinked at the sight of her so close, his heart wobbling in his chest. His dreams were often of her this close (or closer still!), as she had been when they danced in the Shadow Gallery. "Is that all?" he asked, mouth drying up even as he spoke. "He seemed a nice gentleman..."

"You are much more to my taste, Mr. Avery." The admission caught him by surprise. It carried the ring of truth and conviction. He bit back a smile and led her gently forward.

"Stephen, please, Miss Evey."

She peeked up at him. "Just Evey, Stephen." She shivered slightly as they came round the front of the museum, into the lights, turning her face into his shoulder. "I don't want to see anyone, I just want to go." The valet hurried toward them and Stephen took the voucher from his pocket to pass it over. When they were alone again, Stephen gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze, liking the feel of her body alongside his.

"Certainly, Evey. Leave everything to me."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Notes: Thank you to all my reviewers. I hope this chapter is to your liking. A shift of perspective was in order...- Edited 09/08/07, I felt that the perspective change was more jarring than anything else so I adjusted it. Hopefully you will find the results to be pleasing. I did. ES

Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did, I would likely be up on charges for the things I would have certains cast members doing.

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**The Grave's a Fine and Private Place, but None, I think, do There Embrace**

She sat beside him in the car, listening silently to the music on the radio. A classical station played soft violins and strings, filling the somewhat awkward silence. Evey's hands were folded in her lap, fingers restlessly knotting themselves over and over, as she tried to understand what she was doing.

There was something about the man seated beside her that she could not resist. In the last twenty months, no one held her interest her except V. Even as his prisoner she had been drawn to him, although she told him too late. He had been kind to her in his fashion, tried to kindle in her his passion against the government, tried to offer her some sort of freedom. The torture had not faded in her memories but it was nothing compared to the gentle care he gave her the rest of the time.

She glanced at her companion. "Stephen?"

He smiled at the sound of his name. "Yes, Evey?" In the shadows, his voice came to her richly, almost as rich as V's, and somehow it soothed the nerves that held her tautly in place.

"I just want to tell you… I don't make a habit of running away with men I don't know."

He looked at her sharply then, frowning. "I didn't think you did." Certainty rang through the words. "I think that you simply needed to get away from there, Evey. I am pleased that I could assist you."

Evey looked down at her hands as the music filled the silence with sweetness. "I wasn't warned about the exhibit," she whispered. "I didn't expect it to be such a shock..."

He shifted in his seat. "You knew the man, didn't you?"

She shook her head. "No, I didn't," she confessed softly. "Not really." She closed her eyes, expecting the now familiar questions. (_"Didn't he hold you hostage? You are that Evey, aren't you?"_) For a long moment, there was only the soft music and the hum of the engine around her.

Finally Stephen puffed out a sigh. "Still, I am sure that the display was a jarring reminder that you weren't prepared for," he reassured her. "I should think that I am the only person alive who has ever helped someone run away from the circus. It's usually the other way round, isn't it?"

She giggled at the tone of his voice. "So I've been told," she agreed. "Thank you, Stephen. I am grateful..."

The black curls bobbed as he shook his head. "Don't be grateful, Evey. I am pleased to assist you." She looked at his profile and silence fell between them. The music, she thought, the music is so hopeful...She couldn't remember when she had felt so hopeful in her life. Staring at Stephen, she felt a shimmer of excitement bubbling up in her heart.

"I haven't any experience with this, Stephen," she whispered. "But I would like to sleep with you. If you don't want to, I will understand, but I felt I should tell you up front what I wanted."

He adjusted his hands on the steering wheel. "I am probably too old for you, Evey." He sighed again, the small sound filled with longing.

She reached out to put her hand upon his arm. "Stephen, age has nothing to do with it. It's been a long time since I was young. I think that you're very generous."

"I didn't help you to indebt you, Evey." He glanced at her, his eyes unreadable in the shadows. "I don't want you to feel as though you owe me anything."

She drew back her hand and he caught it in his left, lifting the fingers to his lips, kissing her knuckles tenderly. She gasped silently as a little flare of heat passed through her. Stephen's breath hitched.

"I didn't offer myself as payment," she whispered and he cut her off with a shrug.

"I never thought you did," he pointed out. "I just want you to be certain that you feel that way, Evey. I would like to make love to you also." His generous mouth curved up slightly. "You are far too beautiful for me, you know."

"Would you like to come to my flat? Or are we on our way to yours?"

"Mine, if you don't mind." He pulled the car off the road into a garage and then into a private space. "I have a room at this hotel for the night."

"Don't you live in London?" She hadn't thought about the possibility. He shook his head.

"I booked a room when I accepted the invitation. I live in the country and it was too far to come into the city and then expect to drive home after. I thought this might be an acceptable compromise." He switched off the engine and got out, circling the car to open her door. She accepted his hand, the fingers curving around her own with gentle concern. She felt delicate and treasured by his touch, made shy by the light in his eyes.

The lobby passed by in a blur and the lift had other people in it. There was an older couple who noticed the tux jacket around Evey's shoulders and the possessive man beside her, smiling knowingly. Evey pressed herself closer to Stephen, her eyes on the floor. The lift stopped and Stephen gently led her out and down the corridor. He opened a nondescript door and Evey stepped into a luxuriously appointed room, the interior decorated in subtle colors, mainly cream and jade.

Stephen moved over to the phone. "I am rather famished after that party," he apologized. "Would you like anything from room service?" He picked up the menu and glanced over it ruefully. "There isn't anything outstanding but they do a nice prime rib."

"Prime rib?" Evey's eyes widened. "I've never had it."

"Ah, then you must," he insisted. "Some luxuries are meant to be savored." He rang the restaurant, speaking softly into the phone. When he hung up, he turned to her. "How do you feel, Evey?"

"Fine." She winced as the word rang false in her own ears. "I mean, I feel better than before but I am a little… nervous."

"I know that you are," he said, crossing the room to sit down upon the sofa. He made no move toward her. "I want you to know that you are under no obligation to me, Evey. I think you had a bad shock tonight and you needed to get away from the museum." When she might have spoken, he held up a hand, forestalling her. "What would you say if I suggested we simply have dinner together? We can pretend that we are just old chums renewing a friendship. We can talk about anything, or nothing. You won't be alone and neither will I." He tilted his head slightly and the movement was so familiar to her that the tears sprang to her eyes. Appalled, he jumped to his feet. "What is it?" he asked in a slight panic. "Did I say something wrong?"

She bit her lip, shaking her head. "No," she hurried to assure him. "It's nothing, Stephen. Nothing. May I use your loo?" He pointed the way and she escaped to the bathroom.

Alone, Evey studied her face in the mirror, horrified at the damage to her makeup. She wet a washcloth and removed the ruined cosmetics, scrubbing her face as her thoughts ran wildly through her head.

_Stephen is a nice man. He's trying to be kind to me. Why did I run away with him then run away from him?_

The answer went back to V, of course.

As much as she wanted to believe that she was attracted to Stephen for himself, she knew that it wasn't really so. Something in the sheer size of Stephen, the tenor of his voice, the way he treated her…. All those things reminded her of V.

_She wants to forget but she doesn't dare. _

_In her heart, she remembers the smell of the Scarlet Carsons as they thicken the inside of the train with their sweetness, almost blotting out the metallic scent of blood. _

_That damnable mask grins up at her in her nightmares and she remembers how it felt to let him go, travelling down the tube tracks into the fire. _

_A man whose voice she only clearly recalls in dreams, but whose presence surrounds her always..._

She will never be free of him, will she?

_She will always look for him in a crowd, always wonder if a face resembled his, always listen for the sound of a booted footfall. She loves a dead man. The problem is that she is alive and the dead do not love the living nor can the living wait for the dead to return. She has to come back to life sometime._

Stephen tilted his head just as V had. The tiny gesture alone brought back all her longing and grief. His hair, full of curls and unruly, is nothing like V's smooth silky hair except in color. His eyes are hazel, mostly green with a touch of brown. Evey wonders what V's were like.

She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to cry.

_She is weary of being alone, weary of the expectations of others who revere the memory of V, and she craves someone in bed with her, someone she can touch without them flinching away in the dark._

Stephen offered her a chance to ease into some sort of relationship, a slow build up and the chance to run if it is too much. V would never have allowed that. It would have been all or nothing. In the end, it had been nothing.

_Nothing simply isn't enough anymore_.

Evey realized it as she wrung out the cloth. Facing her reflection in the mirror, she smiled.

When she left the bathroom, she returned to the living room and joined Stephen on the couch, sitting close to him. He waited, no pressure in the warm gaze on her, no demands. She smiled again and leaned into him, lifting her mouth to his.

For a moment, he was completely still. She could feel the tension thrumming in his muscles, the restraint he had upon himself, and she opened her lips to him. His self control evaporated then as his mouth claimed hers. Lips, tongue and teeth explored her, like a starving man offered a morsel too tempting to refuse. His mouth trailed along her cheek, finding the sensitive skin below her ear, nipping at the pulse there tenderly. She was surrounded by his scent, a warm woodsy musk that made her warm as toast. His large hand cradled her head and she lifted her arms to feather her fingers through the black curls, clinging to him.

Breathlessly they broke apart and Evey smiled up at Stephen, liking the faintly dazed look in his eyes, the hazel almost completely green. His skin had become flushed, cheeks pinkened by the kiss. "Well, Mr. Avery," she said coyly. "I think that we were perhaps more than old chums."

He laughed faintly. "If that was being chums, tonight is going to destroy me." His voice wobbled on the words, his hand still tangled in her short hair, reluctant to let her go. "Evey."

She looked at him expectantly but he was silent. Finally she leaned toward him again. Their lips met and she devoured him as he devoured her. She closed her eyes only to open them again when her traitorous memory imagines his hands to be gloved, and his face to be masked. She forced herself to look at her companion, to memorize the expression of devotion on his face as he surrenders to her mouth.

Time for new memories, she told herself fiercely. Time for something she wanted for herself. Time for now.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Notes: Hello, it seems people are reading this story which makes me warm all over. Please bear with me if the chapters run shorter than they should. I want to spin a good tale and make it memorable. One reviewer notes that Evey should have recognized Stephen as V when he spoke. In my opinion, Evey is dead certain that V was dead and blown up. He is gone forever. She might notice similarities between Stephen and V but she knows the dead don't rise. If she thought he were V, I think she might lose contact with reality and go mad rather quickly. I don't think she would imagine for more than a moment that V has survived. Just my opinion and part of what makes the story work.- edited 09/09/07, and I still think this chapter's too short. I just couldn't imagine a way to expand it without being too salacious. Ah well. Brevity is the soul of it, paraphrasing to suit myself. ES

Disclaimer: I own nothing, and unless I can go back in time to invest wisely, I won't ever earn anything from this tale.

* * *

**Veritas and Vanity**

The prime rib came and was devoured, along with the steamed asparagus and perfectly roasted potatoes. Evey made polite conversation, only half her attention on the rich food. The other half of her was absorbed in the man seated across from her. They discussed books and films, many that Evey knew only from her time in the Shadow Gallery. She frowned at Stephen.

"Most of these books, all of the movies, were blacklisted," she pointed out. "How is it that you know them so well?"

Stephen mentally cursed his carelessness. "My mother was a reader,," he said honestly. "Not merely for her own enjoyment but as a career. She worked for a publishing house as a proofreader. There were always books about the house, shelves crammed with volumes of all sizes." He hesitated, his fork toying with a bit of beef. "Before she was taken, she had proofread a book against the Norsefire party. The book was considered seditious and Mother a traitor for not immediately reporting it." He looked down at his plate. "She was a romantic at heart, always making us sit down and watch some old black and white movie." He smiled fondly at the memory. "She always had a wad of tissues to catch her tears but she insisted that she loved those movies."

"Us? You mean you and your father?"

Stephen debated lying but his sense of honor was compromised. "No, Father had no interest in those simple pleasures, no desire to join her. My brother and I spent many afternoons being force-fed chivalry and noble deeds."

"You have a brother?" Evey leaned forward eagerly. "I had a brother too."

"Had, Evey?" he asked gently, deflecting the conversation from himself.

"He was a student at St. Mary's." She shook her head. "He died of the virus during the big outbreak." She lifted a brave smile to him. "At least that is no longer a concern for anyone."

Her eyes shone with pride and Stephen felt a well of admiration for her. She had grown so much in the past few months. "At least some good came out of Larkhill," he said, the name of that hated place carrying none of it's usual bitterness. Evey hesitated, fine dark brows knitting in confusion.

"How did you know about Larkhill?" she asked.

He set down his fork. "My brother died at Larkhill. I researched the place for years to try and find out what happened to him. It has been difficult, even when the provisional government made the few records they possessed available to the public. The officials at Larkhill buried their dead in mass graves." He sighed. "A dark place and a subject ill-suited to table." He offered her some fresh asparagus as a distraction. Evey accepted, her eyes on his face, reading the pain there.

"I'm sorry, Stephen," she said earnestly. "I didn't mean to bring up sad memories."

"I know you didn't, Evey. It happened a very long time ago, oh, more than 20 years now. Since the changes in government, I am satisfied that my brother and mother are gone and I have reclaimed the family's holdings. Everything is much as it was before the government became the master of the populace and not it's servant." Stephen sighed, settling back into his seat. "There have been so many changes since November, haven't there?"

Evey nodded, prodding her asparagus with her fork. "Almost too many changes," she mused. She looked up at her host, studying his face, reading again the lines that spoke of sorrow and loss. She set her fork down carefully. "I think I am full," she declared. "And I am terribly uncomfortable in this dress." She got to her feet, the black gown encasing her in elegant folds of satin. "Would you mind very much helping me out of it?"

Stephen's breath caught in his throat but he forced himself to rise. "I would be honored," he said quietly. "To act as your maid."

"I don't need a maid," she protested. "I was hoping for a lover, Stephen. Have you changed your mind?"

He came toward her silently, his eyes brilliant, his expression full of admiration. "You should wear bright colors, Evey. The black is like mourning and you are too full of life to mourn anything. Are you certain that you want me?" He reached out and lightly stroked her arms. "I'm far older than you."

She inclined her head to him. "In years, perhaps, but I am not a child. I assure you that I am quite over the age of consent."

He circled her and his hand found the delicate zipper, sliding it down the length of her spine. She wore a silken slip, the undergarment revealing almost as much as it concealed. He drew in a shaking breath.

"If you change your mind, Evey, tell me now. I don't know if I can stop myself…"

She let the gown pool around her feet, careless of the fabric, and stepped out of it. When she turned to face him, her eyes were dark with hunger. "I haven't changed my mind, Stephen."

She reached out to touch him and felt again that rigid control, his muscles trembling under her hands. That tiny sign of fear, of self-restraint, made it so much easier to lift her mouth to his. She spread her hands across his chest, fingers finding his bulk to be muscle, his shoulders broad as her hands roamed over him. He permitted the touch until she pulled his mouth down to hers. When she kissed him, he sighed into her mouth and kissed her back.

How long they stood there, Evey had no idea. Suddenly Stephen swept her up in his arms as easily as if she were a doll and carried her into the bedroom. He laid her on the bed, standing back to admire her for a moment, and then he reached out to douse the lights. Evey caught his hand.

"Not in the dark," she asked softly. "Not the first time."

Stephen nodded. "As my lady wishes," he said again and turned his attention back to her completely.

Sometime in the night, Stephen woke with the weight of Evey's arm across his ribs. She was curled into him, one leg tangled with his. He stared down at her in the light of the bedside table lamp. Her face was buried in his shoulder and, as he moved, she clutched him tighter.

"V." she muttered. Stephen felt a chill run through him.

If Evey figured him out, he was in dire straits indeed. Part of him was horrified that she had made some connection between him and V but another part of him exulted in it. She had declared her love for V, she had carried out his wishes despite believing him dead. She loved him as V. He loved her, both V and Stephen in agreement. He'd loved her madly but not enough to turn back from the course of action he'd decided on.

He tried to ease from the bed but only succeeded in waking Evey. She blinked at him, looking kittenish in the soft light. "Stephen?" Her voice was rough with sleep. "Is something wrong?"

"No, Evey," he lied softly. "I thought to get another blanket so you didn't get cold."

"I was dreaming…" she mumbled. "I didn't want to be left behind."

"I wasn't leaving you," he soothed her. "Just getting a blanket."

She licked her lips, looking at him from under half-closed lids. "So kind," she said, her voice wistful. "Thoughtful."

He dropped a kiss on her brow. "Let me get the blanket, Evey, and we can go back to sleep." He rose and padded to the closet, pulling out another blanket. Bringing it back to the bed, he spread it over them both. Evey blinked and sat up a little. Her small hand stroked an uneven place on his shoulder.

"What is this?" she asked. "That's not a St. Mary's scar."

He shook his head. "No, it isn't, Evey." He shrugged as he settled back on the bed beside her. "But it's an old scar, a reminder of darker times." He hoped she didn't start counting the scars. Too many questions and too close to home. "Would you rather I put on a shirt?"

"No." She rubbed the little knot. "I'm sorry, Stephen, it must have hurt. Did it happen when your mother…?"

"No, when they took my brother and I both. We tried to run." He reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. "Would you mind if we turned out the light now?"

She shook her head. Before he could shut off the light, someone knocked at the door of the suite, the sound reaching them faintly.

Stephen frowned. "Who the hell could that be at this hour?" he grumbled. Climbing back out of bed, he pulled on his undershirt and made for the door, leaving Evey in bed. Opening the door, he found himself face to face with one person he'd never expected to see again.

The man was middle-aged, dressed in a rumpled suit, his expression grim. Under a thatch of tousled dark hair, his face was world weary, dark eyes deceptively bored. Stephen knew it for the front it was but said only "What's this all about?" in a frustrated voice.

The man flipped open the wallet containing his badge. "Eric Finch, police," he said flatly. "You were at the Museum opening tonight, Mr. ah…" He consulted a notepad. "Mr. Avery?"

Stephen nodded. "I was. I left early. The new display didn't appeal to me." He shook his head. "What do you want?"

"A young woman vanished from the party at approximately the same time you did, Mr. Avery. Would you happen to know anything about that?" Finch's voice was quiet but there was a force behind the words that spoke vaguely of threat. Stephen debated slamming the door shut and locking it but decided against the action as an ill-advised one.

Stephen lifted one brow. "Obviously I do, or you wouldn't be at my hotel door at 3:30 in the morning." He grimaced. "Although I have to say I don't admire your sense of timing."


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Thank you to all my reviewers! You are so very kind. And here's to hoping at least one of my co-workers tunes in and gives an opinion. This chapter was really hard to write so please bear with me if it clunks a bit. I had a lot to get through and it was really difficult. If it tanks, it's my fault and I promise the next chapter will make up for it.-edited 09/09/07...Tweaking is fun, all things considered. I am at least able to maintain both my hit count and my reviews as I move along. There may be an extra chapter in the works, since I am seeing a possibility that I didn't see the first time round. Hope the idea pleases you. ES

Disclaimer: I don't own V or anyone from the movie, etc. To quote my dear friend from work, if I did own V, I would not only touch him in places he didn't know he had but I would probably commit acts upon his person that are illegal in the 48 contiguous States. Man, I wish I owned V. :P

* * *

**Coitus Interruptus at Every Turn**

The policeman didn't smile at Stephen's comment. He eyed the younger man flatly, no real expression on his face, his eyes wary. "May I come it?" Politely couched as a question, both men knew it was not a request. Stephen's chin lifted, one dark brow arching upward.

"Have you a warrant, officer?" he challenged.

Finch held up a folded piece of paper silently. Stephen grimaced and stepped back to allow the other man entrance. Finch shook his head. "You first, please."

Stephen turned and walked back into the living room. He noticed the black dress lying on the floor where Evey had left it and he regretted not hanging it up, out of sight. He stooped to pick it up but the policeman made a sharply disapproving sound.

"Where is she, Mr. Avery?"

Stephen turned, his eyes green with outrage. "Mr. Finch," he said silkily. "I was raised to respect women, not embarrass them." He leveled a cool stare at the intruder. "She is still here, obviously." The black dress lay upon the floor between them, silently declaring its emptiness. Stephen held the older man's gaze with his own, refusing to feel ashamed of spending so many hours in Evey's company. He'd lived a long time without her and he would not be made to feel as though he'd done something wrong in touching the woman who held his heart in her small hands. He dared Finch to make something of it.

Finch scowled. "Evey?" he called out.

She appeared a moment later in the doorway of the bedroom. She wore only Stephen's crisp white dress shirt, her long slender legs bared to the thigh. "Eric?" she said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

The older man didn't turn to her; he kept his eyes on Stephen. "Looking for you."

Evey walked across the room to stand beside Stephen, her delicate arm snaking around his waist. "I wasn't aware that I needed to notify anyone of my whereabouts." She trembled against Stephen's side and he draped am arm across her shoulders encouragingly. He smiled coolly at the policeman.

"As you can see, officer, she has come to no harm with me." He noticed the flash of fury that vanished off the other man's face at once. Was Finch interested in a romance with Evey? Or was his concern more of a paternal sort? Stephen didn't care. It would have to stop if ….

_If what?_

This had been a one night stand, hadn't it? What business did Stephen have in imagining some grand affair or romantic affiliation? Evey had given him no indication of anything more substantial. No promises had been spoken, no declarations of love. Nothing but Stephen's lips worshipping Evey's body, his hands touching her prayerfully in the soft light that fell across the bed. He'd found the banked fires of her flesh and fanned them into full flame, never for one moment knowing that he was the one who would be burnt.

Eric Finch sighed. "Evey, get dressed. There's been a new threat and I need to get you to safety. I've spent far too long tracking down this bloke…"

Evey tightened her hold on Stephen. "There's always a new threat, Eric. I was perfectly safe here with Stephen."

"Why would you think that?" Finch demanded. "Do you know him? Do you know what his political leanings are? Whether or not he might have a reason to want to get to you?" Eric's voice was bitter. "What if you were followed, Evey? Could he protect you?"

Stephen's arm tightened around Evey in silent support. Evey leaned into him. "It didn't matter at the time, Eric." She shook her head. "I had to get out of there and Dom wanted to wait for you to arrive. I just couldn't..."

"You should have waited, Evey. You could be in serious danger."

"No one knew we left together…"she protested.

Suddenly a klaxon sounded. Eric's chin lifted, mouth frowning. "The fire alarm," he said sharply. "Evey, we have to leave here at once."

Stephen broke away from his lover's hold and vanished into the bedroom. He came back with the extra blanket and the wet cloth from the bathroom. Handing the rag to Evey, he swept the blanket around them both and lifted her in his arms. "If there is smoke," he told her. "Cover your nose and mouth. We're close to the fire escape." Looking over the top of Evey's head, he lifted a brow. "Mr. Finch, are you remaining behind?"

Eric glared at him without answering and headed for the door. The older man opened it, letting them all into the hall.

Stephen took the lead, heading for the fire escape. He'd only taken five steps when his foot struck something small. It jangled metallically as it rolled away. He peered down through the fog of smoke. "Smoke grenades!" He back pedaled from the fire escape. Finch grabbed his arm.

"It's a set up."

Stephen resisted the urge to say something nasty. He turned back to his room, kicking the door open and sweeping Evey inside. He blessed the foresight he'd had to request this room. Slipping from the blanket, he hastened to the window with its lovely balcony. As he parted the curtains, he caught sight of his own reflection and snapped them closed again..

"Douse the lights," he ordered. "I can't see anything."

The room went black at once and Stephen's eyes adjusted quickly to the nearly total dark. He opened the curtains a tiny bit and peered into the night. The sky was overcast now, clouds obscuring the inky sky and the heavy moon. Warily he popped the lock on the sliding door and pushed the glass aside, keeping himself low. If they had infrared scopes, the precaution would be relatively worthless, he thought distantly, wondering who in the hell wanted Evey this badly.

The policeman came up beside him, staying close to the floor. "D'ye see anything?"

"Just darkness." Stephen glanced around, trying to gauge the angles of an attack. "It's possible to get off this balcony onto the top of the parking garage," he suggested. "It would be a rough landing, Mr. Finch, but not fatal."

"Paranoid, are you?" Finch snipped.

"I fear fires," Stephen replied. "I always choose rooms with more than one way out." He turned to the girl behind him. "Do you think you could make it, Evey?"

She laughed nervously. "Whatever it takes," she said bravely. Stephen grinned in the dark.

"Good girl," he lauded her. "Who's first? Mr. Finch, do you want to take the leap of faith? Or would you rather I go first to prove it can be done? If I fail, you're free to take Evey out the more conventional way."

Finch made a frustrated noise. "You first," he said at last. He eyed the distance to the roof of the garage. "That looks a long way."

"I said I fear fire," Stephen reminded him. "Not heights."

He crawled out onto the balcony and got to his feet slowly. The night was silent but for the shill fire alarm. There was no motion to warn him of threat. He went over the balcony in a swift move, body remembering just the way it was meant to be done. He landed on the garage, flexing his knees to absorb the fall. He lifted his face to the balcony. "Come on, Evey girl," he whispered breathlessly.

She came over the railing in a swirl of white. Stephen reached out and caught her to his chest, looking down into her face. "Are you alright?" he whispered. She nodded and he set her down reluctantly. The older man came next.

His jump was short.

Stephen lunged toward him as he fell, managing to wrap a hand around the policeman's wrist. Eric hung in his grip, dangling over the far longer fall to ground level. Stephen's arm wrenched under the shorter man's weight but he did not let go. He knelt against the lip of the roof, body taut with strain but hanging on for the man's life.

"Please, Mr. Finch," he whispered, fighting to keep from shouting. "You have to pull yourself up."

Eric swung his free hand up, gripping the wrist of the hand that held him. Painfully slowly, he climbed Stephen's arm until Stephen and Evey could get him onto level ground. They huddled together for a moment, each trying to catch their breath. Stephen's arm ached but he dismissed the pain. There was still a lot to do.

"Where is your car, Mr. Finch?"

"Parked behind yours." The admission was deadpan but Stephen ignored it, nodding..

"Advantageous of you." He puffed lightly. "I suggest you take my car. There is a spare key hidden behind the rear wheel. Give me your keys. They will expect Evey to be with you, won't they?" Finch nodded. "Good, I'll lead them a merry chase while you get the lady to safety." He reached out and caught the older man's arm. "You will get her safe." The latter was a command, not a request for reassurance, and the threat in his voice was obvious. Finch nodded again, handing over the keys. Stephen palmed them. He leaned toward Evey, pulling her into a kiss. "Be careful, Miss Evey. Be safe."

She opened her mouth to reply but Stephen hurried off into the dark.

The garage lights cast strange shadows and small noises echoed loudly. He slipped silently among the cars, finding a modicum of darkness between vehicles. He'd almost reached his parking place when something hard jabbed his shoulder.

"Halt, hands up." The voice was strangely unaccented. Stephen straightened slowly, his hands raised in surrender. "Turn around."

Obediently, not certain of what stood behind him, he faced the threat. It was a man of about 25 or 30, armed with a rifle, his eyes a clear blue and full of death. "Who are you?" Stephen asked, making his voice sound awed.

"Police." The younger man sneered. "You seem rather underdressed, citizen."

Stephen shrugged. "I fear my lady's husband returned earlier than expected," he said abashed. "We were….well, we weren't ready for him."

The cold eyes blinked. "Fornicating? That is a serious offense."

Stephen let his eyes wander round the garage level. Satisfied he was alone with the boy, he smiled.

"Not any more. Norsefire is dead," he said happily. "As dead as Sutler and Creedy when I finished with them." He lashed out, knocking the younger man's rifle aside. His second blow was to the soft tissues of his enemy's throat. The deadly blue eyes glazed in moments, the body sinking to the floor limply. Stephen took a moment to pat down the body, finding no ID. He picked up the boy and carried him to a stairwell before stuffing him inside and blocking the door.

He made his way back to the parking place, finding the policeman's car to be a sturdy throwback to a time before St. Mary's and the crackdown on imports. He gave the car a quick once over, finding nothing out of place, and slid behind the wheel. The engine ticked over at once and Stephen shifted into reverse, squealing the tires savagely. His flight would draw most of the observation and he hoped rather perversely that Mr. Finch could hear his auto being so manhandled. He took the down ramp at forty, keeping his hands locked on the wheel and his eyes straight ahead.

When he hit the street, he headed for the motorway and cut a beeline for Gallowsmere.

He had no intention of shaking off any pursuers.

On the contrary, he wanted them to follow him to his country home. It had been months since he'd done anything like…before. The fifth of November had seen him arrive at his family home injured in body and soul, weary of serving Madame Justice and ready to retire. He'd laid aside his alter ego and settled into a quiet life as a well-off lay about.

In the past months, he'd focused on making necessary repairs to the old house. Rebuilding his life one board at a time, nurturing things as opposed to destroying them, he'd found the endeavor peaceful. Everything he'd never really hoped to dream about in the past two decades, but... It was wearing to pretend to be someone he really wasn't. The shiftless attitude he adopted was every bit the mask he'd worn for years. Not a mask of smooth white porcelain, but one of flesh and blood...

Right now that façade was thinning and Stephen felt the last twenty years rise to the fore. Someone had come for Evey and he hoped with all his heart that they were following him. With any luck, he'd have the chance to dish out a little vengeance. He felt quite vindicated at the thought, as alive as he had not felt in many months except for those few hours in Evey's arms.

The road spread out before him and he pressed his foot to the pedals, shifting the gears into overdrive and pushing the car to a higher speed. Not long until dawn, he thought eagerly. Just enough time to make it home and face whomever was foolish enough to follow.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Notes: I thank all my reviewers, with a special nod to Pumpkinator. I hope that this update makes you especially pleased. I know I am having a ripping good time with this and I hope that my readers are enjoying the ride as well.-edited 09/09/07. Tweaking continues, and I think the story is improved. My poor husband keeps shaking his head at me but he hasn't told me to stop playing with the tale so I am continuing. Have any of you noticed the changes? Are they obtrusive? Just curious. ES

Disclaimers: How many times must I lament it? I own nothing of V for Vendetta. This little story is for amusment and the gain of reviews, nothing monetary.

* * *

**So Far and No Farther**

_It's like a lion at the door;_

_And when the door begins to crack,_

_It's like a stick across your back;_

_And when your back begins to smart,_

_It's like a penknife in your heart;_

_And when your heart begins to bleed,_

_You're dead, and dead, and dead, indeed._

_-A nursery rhyme_

_Later_

Stephen watched the headlights reflected in his rearview mirror and grinned to himself, the old familiar rush of exhilaration rising in his chest. He figured he had about a three minute lead on his pursuers and that was a singular amount of time. There were three cars behind him, jockeying for first place, and the only unknown variables were how many and who sent them. He assumed the worst: that the cars were full. He was fairly certain he could wrest the answer to the second part of the equation given a little privacy.

The road was familiar to him and he took corners with the pedal pressed to the floorboard, evading the strategically placed potholes at a speed and skill-level that rivaled a professional racecar driver's.

Finch's car would likely need a new clutch and a thorough tune up in the morning.

The gate to his private lane loomed ahead. Stephen took the lane as sharply as he dared, not wanting to roll the car, and shrieked up the drive as gravel spurted from beneath his tyres. Whipping around the back of the house, he slammed out of the car and left it running, sprinting up to the door. He realized then that his keys were still at the hotel and cursed under his breath as he decided upon a course of action. Shoving his elbow through the glass pane that ran along the door, he reached in to unlock the bolt. Not bothering with lights, he slid past the door and moved through house silently, unerringly, to his father's study.

Even in the near pitch blackness of the room, he remembered where everything was. The fireplace, his father's desk, the leather sofa… He moved past the latter to a particular wall. Pressing a panel, he heard the mechanism for the priest hole activate, the small section of wall sliding aside. He reached inside, took out a black cloak which he wrapped himself in and pulled out two eighteen inch blades, spinning them automatically in his hands. He closed the hidden chamber and moved back through the house. Stephen was confident that he was fairly invisible in the dark. He lurked along the shadows, blending into them as he stalked his uninvited guests.

They were already inside, their silence and speed raising them a notch about average enemies. There were only six of them, he realized. As they fanned through the house, they spoke softly to one another through com-links.

Professionals?

He singled out the first to die, a man nearly his own height, and slid his blade though the man's heart, one hand over the man's mouth to stifle any outcry. After he lowered the body to the floor, he located the small com-link and patched into their network.

_Evan, do you copy? Have you gotten a visual?_

_Negative. Randall?_

_Negative. They must be somewhere. They didn't have time to hide._

Stephen smirked. He slipped outdoors and threw the main breaker, insuring there would be no light in the house, only the night and the silence. He shivered in anticipation, feeling more alive than he had in the past eight months, then activated the com-link he'd liberated from his victim.

"Good evening, gentlemen, Welcome to Gallowsmere. There are now five of you left."

_Bloody hell! _

"You are in my house," Stephen whispered. "And I did not invite you. I await you outside, under the full moon, so as not to sully my house with your blood. One body to clean up is annoying enough."

_Who the fuck is that?_

He spun his knives again, listening to the chatter on the comlink. This would be quite like old times, he thought, exhilaration simmering though his blood like fine champagne.

_Elsewhere_

Eric Finch glanced at Evey, seeing the frozen look on her face. "I'm sorry," he said at last. She didn't look at him.

"I didn't sign up to be the poster child for the revolution, Eric. Aren't I allowed to have a life of my own?" Frustration bubbled through her voice. "Haven't I already done everything I'm supposed to?"

"You shouldn't have left Dominic," Finch chided her. "You bloody near gave him cardiac failure." He hesitated. "Why did you go with that man?" he asked softly. "Did you know him before…"

"No." Evey turned her face toward the window. "The museum upset me. Seeing that mannequin…" Her voice trembled. "Stephen was solicitous." She said nothing else for a long moment. "It wouldn't have mattered if he'd been nice to any other girl."

"Probably not." Finch sighed. "But you are the face of the revolution, Evey. I know that the past months," He avoided mentioning a particular date. "Have been hard on you. But nothing changes the fact that you are the one who carried out V's mission. That puts you in the limelight, loved on one hand and hated on the other. There are still members of Norsefire out there who have put a price on your head."

Evey swiped at her face, wiping away silent tears. The quiet didn't fool Eric, who handed over a handkerchief without comment. He concentrated on the road. "You weren't careful, Evey, and you have to be."

She bit her lower lip. "You have to make sure he's alright," she said softly. "He's a nice man, Eric. I don't want him to come to harm because of me."

_Gallowsmere_

Stephen straightened, eyeing his final opponent.

"Your clip is empty," he remarked lightly, smiling in the dark. "And I am betting that you haven't any more ammunition." He circled the man slowly, the injured fellow moving to keep facing him. "I am fully armed, on the other hand, and feel no real concern about killing you. I might let you have your life…for a price."

"What price?" the man asked roughly. Stephen smiled.

"Who sent you after Evey Hammond?" He twirled his knives lazily, the movement languid. "That is the only price that will earn you a chance to reach your car before I kill you."

The wounded man swallowed. "If I tell you, I'm dead already." His eyes followed the dull gleam of metal on his opponent's hands.

"Then truly, what have you to lose?" Stephen asked, tilting his head. "I can kill you quickly or slowly. We are in the middle of nowhere. No one will hear you screaming for mercy. No one will come to your rescue. I would suspect that you are extremely expendable, but of course, the choice is yours." His voice was hypnotic, the words as lethal as his blades. "Who sent you?"

The mercenary licked dry lips. "The orders came through a third party. An old Fingerman named Palmer." He glanced toward the car.

Stephen pursed his lips. "Not quite enough," he said. "Where can I find Palmer?"

"A pub. White Street. The Crow and Cock." The injured man sounded desperate. "Please, that's all I know."

"I believe you." Stephen sounded sincere. "You've earned your chance to run," he said. "But I don't think you can make it."

The mercenary took to his heels as fast as his injuries allowed. Stephen watched him for a moment then flipped one knife reversed in his hand. He sent it spinning after the assassin, gratified when it landed dead center of the man's back, dividing his spine. The running man was dead before he hit the ground.

Stephen checked his watch. Nearly dawn. He sighed. Six bodies to get rid of and three cars. "The Devil is in the details," he murmured. He returned to the house to prepare himself for the work to be done. He was dressed ridiculously, still wearing only a pair of boxers and an undershirt. He swept off his cloak, chuckling at the image and trotted upstairs to his room.

_Afternoon_

It was late afternoon when he heard a car on the drive and went to a window to glance out. It was his own car. He noted Eric Finch driving, the young Dominic riding passenger and grimaced. When his eyes caught sight of the smaller figure in the rear seat, his heart gave a little leap of joy. He moved to the rear of the house and waited for someone to knock. When it came, he took his time answering, glad that the glazier had already erased the signs of his abrupt entrance to his house.

He opened the door, stifling a yawn.

"Ah, you" he said with a note of belated recognition. "Knocking at my door again? She's not here, I'm afraid, if you've lost her once more."

"Stephen?" Evey appeared beside Eric, her eyes full of concern. "Are you alright?"

"Hullo, Evey," His voice warmed over her name. "I am quite well." He smiled and it was for her alone. "And you…How are you?"

In answer, she burst into tears. Automatically he opened his arms and she came to him, smelling of spring and sunshine. He tucked her head under his chin, cuddling her as he never could have as V. "Here now, what's wrong?" He rocked her gently, letting her cry it out. "Come inside, Evey,' he urged. "Let me get you something to drink."

She clung to him as he turned her, pulled her inside. Glancing back at the two police officers, he frowned. "You'd better come too," he grumbled. "No sense leaving you outside to cool your heels."

They ended up in the cheery kitchen, Stephen puttering about making tea. In a trice, he had the kettle on, tea in the strainer, and was setting out a small tray of biscuits. Evey sat at the table, her tears having come to an end. Eric and Dominic watched Stephen suspiciously, the older of the two leaning against the wall, arms folded at his chest.

"You live here long?" Finch asked at last. Stephen nodded, watching himself arrange the biscuits.

"You already know that, Mr. Finch. The house has been in my family for a very long time… Since before Henry the Eighth..." He glanced up, offering a false smile. "I would have expected you to have my whole dossier memorized by now. Are there any gaps you need filled?"

"I'm sure I'll think of some," Eric replied flatly. Stephen chuckled as the kettle whistled.

"You do that," he suggested. He warmed the tea pot and steeped the tea, slipping a cosy over the china pot. The biscuits went before Evey. "Help yourself, dear girl. The tea will be but a moment."

"Did you have any one after you last night?" Dominic asked.

Stephen chuckled again. "Well, I lost them if I did," he said slowly. "I fear I have rather abused your car, Mr. Finch. It is at the mechanic's in town. The clutch failed fairly close to home." The older man's lips tightened, an expression of annoyance. "I thought I would return her to you already recovered, but here you are and I haven't heard from the shop yet."

"Kind of you." Finch's tone said he was anything but. "So no one troubled you last night?"

"No," Stephen repeated. "No one troubled me at all." He turned to check the tea, hiding his smile. "All in all, a quiet morning." He brought the teapot to the table. "Shall I play Mother?" he asked lightly.

Tipping the teapot, his hand trembled suddenly and weakened. Frowning in annoyance, he shifted hands but Evey had already noticed. "Stephen, your hand.."

"It's nothing…" He finished pouring and set the teapot aside. Evey gave him a sharp look.

"That happened last night," she said accusingly. "When you caught Eric."

Stephen shrugged, spooning sugar into his tea and adding a little cream. "Perhaps. It was stiff when I woke this afternoon. That may be why."

"You should have it looked at."

He grimaced. "I fear doctors more than I fear fire," he protested. "It will heal of its own accord."

Evey frowned. "I would feel better if you had it examined," she said slowly. "I hate to think you got hurt on my account."

"Well, technically it was on Mr. Finch's account," he pointed out. "But I am not keeping record. You, dear girl, gave me nothing but happiness." He noticed her blushing and he smiled into his tea. "I am glad that you came all the way out here to visit. I so rarely have company." He looked up hopefully. "Would you like a tour of the house while you are here? You probably haven't been in a house this old and, although it's a monstrosity, it has its finer points." He smiled wistfully at Evey. "Shame to come all this way and not see the house and grounds."

Evey's somber expression softened. Perhaps he's lonely, she thought. What could it hurt? She glanced at Eric. "May we?"

Finch nodded after a moment, a sudden glint in his eyes. "Of course," he assured her. "We aren't due anywhere this evening." Dominic shot him a quick look, reading a silent caution in his mentor's eyes.

Stephen noticed the unspoken exchange but kept his attention on Evey. "After tea, I'll show you all around. Unless you'd rather explore on your own?"

Eric Finch's voice was surprisingly soft. "I'd like to look around the grounds," he said from his station against the wall. "The garden is quite…pretty." He heaved a sigh. "I haven't seen a garden like that in years."

Stephen nodded. "By all means," he agreed. "Feel free to look about at your leisure. I caution you to stay within the open areas. There is a nasty little bog up past the trees and the occasional poacher's trap but nothing in the vicinity of the house to be wary of."

"I'll bear that in mind, Mr. Avery."

"Stephen." He met Eric's gaze as he said it. "Surely we are acquainted enough to be on a less formal basis?" He smiled cheerfully, realizing that Evey would be here in his house for a while yet. "Please make yourself at home."

_After Tea_

As Stephen took Evey on a tour of the house, Dominic turned to Finch. "What's this all about?" he asked in a whisper. Finch shook his head. He led his partner outside again, into the sunlight. Dominic chafed under the silence as Finch ambled toward the drive. Just as he was about to speak, Finch paused.

The older man's expression was neutral but his eyes were dark. "Dom, my lad," he said lightly, as though discussing the garden. "Take a casual look at the drive there, where the gravel ends." Dom folded his arms and obeyed, his earnest face puzzled by the torn up turf. "If you look sharp, you'll see the marks of several tyres, fresh marks and made at speed." He tucked his hands into his pockets and strolled back into the heart of the garden. "I think our host lied about his quiet morning." Dom glanced at the house.

"What do you mean?"

"Either he drives like a maniac," Eric answered. "Or someone was here this morning, someone in a hurry." Dom frowned at the thought.

"Is Evey…"

Eric shook his head. "No, I think he's very interested in her." Eric Finch sighed. "It's strange, Dom my lad. I honestly believe he was trying to protect her last night. I know for a fact he saved my life."

Dom frowned. "Then why are we here?" he asked. "Are you concerned he's some sort of crazy person?" Eric chuckled at the idea.

"No, this concerns me because I don't know who he is." Eric hesitated over a particular flower bed, studying the tidy plot as though completely absorbed in the landscaping. "He hasn't answered a single question to my satisfaction, to where I didn't have the feeling that what he said either wasn't the truth or was misleading. He apparently lied about having company just a few moments ago. Also, I wonder what happened to his visitors. Did they leave again? If not, where are they?"

Dominic looked up, shocked supposition in his dark eyes, and Eric nodded at his partner. "Yes, I thought of it too. The bog." He rubbed his face with one hand. "No way to check that out quietly. For the moment, we are definitely stuck with Mr. Avery."

"If you don't trust him, why is he alone with Evey?"

"Something about him disturbs me, Dom, and I'm too old and too experienced not to know when I am being lied to." Eric fished out the pipe in his pocket, hefting the cherry bowl in his hand thoughtfully. "I know Stephen Avery is lying about something and that makes me very nervous." The Chief Inspector sighed. "That said, I have to say he is not lying about Evey, however, and he's good under pressure."

"But is he dangerous, Eric?" Dom's question made Eric pause and glance toward the house. After a moment, the older man shrugged.

"I don't know, Dom. I have the feeling that he would go to extremes to protect her. I don't know why but I think he would."

Upstairs, Stephen led Evey to his mother's room. It was still decorated as his mother had kept it; the only things missing were the books that should have graced the bookshelves. Stephen still felt a pang of sadness at the sight of the empty place her books had lived. Evey moved toward the vacant space, frowning. "Your mother must have loved to read."

"She did." Stephen's attention was suddenly riveted upon Evey's slender body, his mouth going dry when he remembered the night before. "They took all the books when they took her. That was when this house became truly empty and dead inside."

"I still miss my mum too." Evey turned to face him, her serious expression full of concern. "Are you truly alright, Stephen?" She stepped nearer. "I was so worried about you."

He spread his arms out to her. "My dear girl," he said gently. "I have never been so happy to find someone on my doorstep as I was to see you. I was afraid…" He shook his head. "That doesn't matter now."

"No, tell me." She moved closer still. Her eyes sought his with a question he could hardly bear to answer.

"Evey," he said weakly. "I didn't expect you to come here. I thought you'd probably not want to see me again."

"Funny." Her voice hitched on the word. "I thought the same." He looked up and she was right in front of him, eyes shimmering with tears. "Were you really glad to see me?"

"Oh, Evey," he whispered. "It was as though someone gave me a new lease on life. You make me feel like the boy I was before the camps, back when anything was possible." He reached out to touch her cheek, his fingers warm and slightly calloused. "Did you really want to see me again?" he asked hopefully.

In response, she threw herself into his arms, her mouth meeting his in a searing kiss. Stephen's knees weakened at the hunger in her mouth but he did his level best to satisfy it. When she nuzzled against his throat, he moaned softly. "Evey, your escorts are still here."

"Outside," she whispered fiercely. "And I don't care. Life is too short to waste something this good." She wrapped her arms around his ribcage, clinging to him. "Please, Stephen, kiss me. Kiss me in every room of this house, so that I will always be here with you and you won't be alone." She turned bright eyes to him and he smiled.

"As my lady wishes," he whispered. Taking her hand in his, he led her to the next room eagerly.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: I promise my readers that this is a VEV story and there will be VEV goodness very soon. But this isn't PWP and plot takes some doing. Can't spend all our time in the bedroom, people. Where this is going will be a ride, I believe, and a good one. I will likely change the rating of this piece in a bit, as I fully plan on some smut. I can't help it, I do like writing smut and I don't think I can do this story without it. Not sure I would want to try going without.- edited 09/09/07. I've nothing particularly clever to say about this chappie. LOL. ES

Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine... although I do have some interesting ideas of how to pilfer the illustrious Hugo Weaving away from...Never mind. :)

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**A Dream, A Design, A Dreaded Discussion**

After the police and Evey had decamped, Stephen wandered the house, lost in the silence.

Stephen suspected that Eric and Dominic had been futilely looking for some sign of intruders but their lingering examination of the grounds had given Evey a chance to kiss Stephen in every room of the house, an exercise he'd found most enjoyable. Now however, he was tired. The departure of his love, compounded by the loss of sleep, had dulled him. He had rarely spent a good night at Gallowsmere since his return; the darkness was full of voices and memories. He hoped that his newest memories would silence the sadness and bring back some of his old joy at being home.

Sighing, Stephen made his way upstairs and lay down on his bed, thinking to close his eyes for a few moments. The bed was softer than he was used to, it cradled him in comfort and he slipped into sleep.

He sat again at his mirror, the Faustian mirror (hadn't he broken that?), and stared at the reflection of the Guy Fawkes mask. He lifted a hand to his cheek and realized that he wasn't wearing the mask. The motionless porcelain seemed to smile a little more broadly and Stephen grinned back in recognition.

"Hello, V."

His brother's voice was a half note different, a little deeper when he spoke. "Hello, Viv." The sleek black hair was immaculate, framing the pristine mask. "You look well." A gloved hand lifted to touch the other side of the mirror. "I miss you."

"Ah, V, you left me, remember?" He couldn't quite keep the sound of reproof from his voice. The mask radiated regret.

"I couldn't live like that, Viv. Not even for you." The head tilted curiously. "I liked the fireworks. You must have gotten lots of pennies for your Guy."

Stephen laughed bitterly. "I made them pay and pay, V. All in your name. I carried out your vendetta, I took my vengeance. I cost them everything. You knew that, didn't you?"

"I know what you did." V tilted his head in acknowledgement. "But I am perplexed by one thing, brother, and I must propose a question. You must not answer me now; you have to think it over." The black suit leans forward, the mask still jolly but the attitude somber. "Why was Creedy so willing to kill Sutler, Viv? He was a hand and hands rarely make a move against their masters. It didn't make sense to me then and I have had plenty of time to ponder it since."

Stephen considered the question, letting it resonate through him in the silence. "Well, V," he said slowly. "I haven't thought much about it. What do you think?" Stephen frowned at the reflection of his twin.

V shook his head. "Not so simple, I suspect, sibling mine. This cipher is your stickler to solve. I shall only be with you in spirit as you struggle toward a solution, supporting you as you seek your salvation. Someone's safety, someone special, is suspended from the superseding supposition's settlement."

The sibilant slurry of syllables stunned Stephen's senses….

As he woke up, blinking in the early morning light.

His brother's voice still echoed in his ears, the alliterative sentences an old game their mother played with them. For a moment, Stephen was filled with longing for the days of his childhood, for his mother's laughter ringing out as they tried hard to string together words in a linguistic ballet. He threw an arm across his eyes, blocking out the morning, relying on his memory to pay homage to the dead by recalling them younger and full of life.

He had been an identical twin to his brother, born on June the first, Gemini. Double twins, their mother had called them, and it seemed the truth. They had been inseparable, each finishing the other's sentences, knowing the other's secrets. They'd often taken on one another's names and habits to fool their mother or the help. Stephen and Anton spent their childhood as reflections of one another, under their mother's watchful eye, and she taught them to love their language as she did. Stephen remembered breakfasts with the Thesaurus and Dictionary being passed with more frequency than the butter or bread.

The boys roamed the land, spending time chasing each other through the trees as the years turned. They were sixteen when their mother was taken by the Fingermen, just coming into their strength and still angular with adolescence. Old enough to understand what was happening, they struggled against their captors but hadn't the power or wherewithal to escape.

Stephen had found it simple to take on V's identity when he decided to put paid to the debts owed to his brother. It suited him to torment his brother's tormentors, and to feel that V had part of it through their bond of blood. Twenty years was nothing compared to what they stole from him by destroying V. They'd taken half of him when they'd forced V to act so desperately. The Larkhill experiments dulled V's side of the bond so badly that he hadn't known Stephen was coming for him. Stephen sensed the fury and anguish radiating through their bond, had hurried only to arrive minutes too late. All he could do was try to help his brother heal from his terrible injuries and hope that he would be able to.

In the end, it hadn't been enough.

Stephen pried himself out of bed. He banished his dark thoughts, not wanting to dwell on the past when his future looked so impossibly bright. He showered, singing to himself as the water washed away the memories and refreshed him for the day to come. As he shaved, his face stared out from the mirror at him. The moment reminded him of his dream earlier and he turned from his reflection with sorrow, moving back into the bedroom to dress.

After 20 years of dark clothes, of living in shadows, he delighted in the casual clothing that made up his new wardrobe. He selected a pair of khaki trousers and a chocolate shirt. He dressed hurriedly before trotting down the stairs two at a time to get to the kitchen. He was hungry and he made quick work of breakfast before attending to his mental list of chores.

He went downstairs into the basement, a place he'd been avoiding. The basement had a room hidden at one end with a tunnel out to the old stables. The house's history had been one of turmoil. Many a priest had hidden in the priest hole; many a priest had been smuggled out via the secret tunnel. The brothers had spent their teenage years reconstructing the old passage. Stephen had cleaned it out when he reclaimed the house, more out of nostalgia than necessity but he'd left it alone since. Now he began a sweep of the house from the basement up, deciding the caution was a better part of valor.

His unanticipated guests had been in the house only a short while but it was possible that they had left behind tiny bits of technology. He whistled to himself as he searched the house, delighted when nothing appeared. He tidied himself up and donned an apron as he set about fixing something for lunch. He still needed to go into town but he'd given Evey and her escorts the use of his car. He mulled over his options while he ate.

The telephone rang. He nearly laughed when it was the mechanic telling him the detective's car was finished. He made arrangements to be picked up within the hour.

Ringing off, he nodded to himself. Fate was a fickle thing but he seemed to be in her favor today. He'd be in the city by tea time with luck, perfect for what he had in mind.

He trotted upstairs and rummaged in a drawer, locating the thing he sought after a few moments. He stared at it for a moment before burying it in a pocket. The black leather wallet and its shiny Fingerman's badge would probably come in handy later. He slipped a slender little stiletto into the belt at the small of his back and chose a light khaki jacket to cover it. He almost hoped it would become necessary to use it, but decided to be judicious. He needed to find out what this Palmer chap knew and who had put out an order for Evey's life. It wouldn't do to kill the messenger if one didn't know who wrote the note.

A few hours later, he appeared at Eric Finch's office, smiling at the detective's lovely secretary. "Is Mr. Finch available?" he asked politely.

"Have you an appointment?" she asked, blinking up at him in obvious appraisal. Stephen smiled back, a little startled. He wasn't used to such avid admiration.

"No," he said slowly. "But I do have his car. I'd like to collect mine from him as well."

She picked up the phone and made a call while Stephen wandered over to a painting on the wall and studied it closely. He was lost in contemplation when the woman came over and touched his arm. He flinched away from her, having forgotten her presence. She pouted. "Detective Finch will see you now."

"Thank you." He stepped away from her and entered Finch's office. The older man was alone and rose when Stephen came in.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Avery."

Stephen offered his hand but Finch ignored it. He dropped his hand to his side. "Yes, well, good afternoon, Mr. Finch," he said softly. "I have brought your car back to you. Might I perhaps have my own back? I should like to get my things from the hotel and head for home."

"The hotel doesn't have your things," Finch retorted. He studied Stephen for a moment. "Everything you left was brought here and placed in evidence."

"Evidence?" Stephen frowned. "Whatever for?"

Finch sank back into his seat, gesturing Stephen into another chair. "Made it easier to search your belongings, Mr. Avery. Why else?"

Stephen sighed. "And have you satisfied your curiosity?"

"Not by half." The policeman sounded put out. "You offered to flesh out your dossier, Mr. Avery. Does the offer still stand?"

Stephen leaned back, the little dagger at his back digging into his spine reassuringly. "I have nothing to hide, Mr. Finch. Is this an official inquiry?" He kept his voice calm and quiet. It wouldn't do to have Finch hear V's voice come out of his mouth.

"According to your paperwork, you have a brother…"

"Had." The word was bitter. He looked away, not particularly wanting to discuss that topic with this hostile man.

"Right. Had." Finch leaned over the file before him. "You were both taken into detainment?"

"Yes."

"Where were you held?"

"Doesn't the record say?" Stephen snapped. "I was held for a time at Bridgewood Detention. It was during my sixteenth year. My brother was at the same facility until he was transferred to a place called Larkhill. He died in a fire there a while later." He curbed his temper, reminding himself that this man was responsible for Evey's safety. "Is there a particular reason you are curious about my brother? Or is this to hurt me by making me remember things better left buried?"

Finch had the courtesy to look abashed. "Do you know much about Larkhill?" he asked a bit more gently. Stephen looked him in the eye.

"My brother was my twin, Inspector." Stephen shook his head. "All I can tell you for certain, all I know in every fiber of my being, is that he suffered there. The day to day horror I lived didn't come close to his particular hell. I felt his pain." He forestalled the other man's comment. "I know many people doubt the connection between twins but I have lived it. Losing him was worse than losing part of my own body. Not a day goes by that I do not wake up, thinking he is down the hall or just off to market only to realize that he is in fact dead and I will never see him again." Stephen hesitated, his head bent over his clasped hands. When he lifted his head again, his expression was casual. "But I digress, Mr. Finch. What other questions do you have? Let us answer them all and be done with this game."

Finch leaned back himself and stared at Stephen. "I don't trust you," he admitted. "You aren't what you appear to be. I've been a policeman far too long not to know a lie when I hear it. The way you were at the hotel, so calm and cool… I would have guessed military training but there's no mention in your file of any enlistment." He hesitated. "I can't deny that you saved my life that night and I don't know why. Was it Evey? Did you risk yourself to look good in her eyes?"

"An honest man," Stephen said quietly. "Is such a rarity these dark days." He sighed. "I am grateful for Evey Hammond's attention, whatever attention she offers. I would be content for any crumb of her regard. She is a beautiful and courageous girl with an enormous heart. As far as saving you, Mr. Finch," and Stephen's eyes narrowed. "I think that letting you worry about why I rescued you is more of a torment than telling you the answer would be." His smile was slightly sadistic. "You had your shot at hurting me, Mr. Finch. When I feel I have had my pound of flesh in restitution, I'll reconsider telling you exactly why I decided you needed to continue in this life." He rose smoothly to his feet. "May I have my keys, sir?" He pulled the detective's key ring from his pocket and dropped it on the table.

"I'm not finished with you…"

"Yes, you are." Stephen held out his hand. "My keys, sir. As far as my baggage, well, let's write that off as a loss. I don't want anything that you have pawed over and rummaged through. I can buy new clothes and luggage."

"Evey wants to see you again."

Finch looked up at him, watching his face avidly as the words sank in, and Stephen hated the telltale flush that rose in his cheeks. He tried to keep his expression neutral but Finch's eyes narrowed and he knew that something had slipped past his control.

"She asked me to tell you when you came to get the car."

"You should have been an interrogator for Creedy," Stephen whispered, drawing away. He dragged his eyes from the suddenly stricken look on Finch's face. "You have a knack for it, a disregard for your victim just so long as you get the desired effect." He laughed, the sound shaky in his own ears. "Keep the car, Mr. Finch. Keep your own. I… I have to get out of here." He started toward the door, staggering slightly. Only his will kept him upright, his determination to leave immediately propelling him forward.

Suddenly Finch was before him, his expression of concern at odds with the doubt in his eyes. "Sit down," he ordered quietly. "Sit down or I will have you locked up for threatening a police officer."

Stephen allowed himself to be forced back to his seat. He couldn't muster the strength to push past the man before him and it was easier than fighting his way out of the room. Finch opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of scotch and two paper cups. He poured out a measure into both before putting one cup in front of Stephen. "Drink it."

"I don't drink with my enemies."

Finch snorted. "Less chance of betrayal, Mr. Avery." He picked up his own cup. "I am not certain about you and I've considered this meeting carefully. I would like a straight answer to two questions. If you are honest with me, I may very well rethink my opinion of you." He picked up his cup, holding it half way to his mouth. Stephen met his questioning gaze somberly, waiting. Eric sipped the whiskey, letting the silence lengthen into awkwardness "How many men followed you back to your house from the hotel?" Casually spoken, the question hovered in the air between them.

Stephen picked up his own cup and knocked it back, the scotch burning his throat. "Six," he said hoarsely. Finch nodded and sipped his own drink. Stephen watched him for a moment. "What is your second question?"

"How many did you manage to kill?"

Finch asked this in a calm and ordinary tone, much as a man might ask about the weather. Stephen stared at him, his eyes dark brown with pain and conflict. Finally the younger man sighed, setting his empty cup on the desk quietly before replying.

"All of them."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: To everyone who has reviewed me, I am heartily grateful. The comments I get from you fuel the writing I am doing. Thank you for the encouragement. All feedback helps me, thank you. Oh, and a language warning for this chapter.- edited 09/10/07. Actually I left this chapter largely alone. Aside from adding one hyphenated word, I couldn't see anything to change. ES

Disclaimer: The Good Lord knows I have naught to do with ownership of the man in the mask. This story is just so I can play with the characters a little. I promise to return them unscathed to their owner's toy box. Thanks for sharing.

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**The Sins of the Father, the Regrets of the Son**

For a moment, Finch stared at Stephen, open-mouthed, the half empty paper cup at his lips. The expression on his face was priceless; a cross between victory and horror, but it vanished to be followed rather swiftly by an intense concern. He threw back the rest of his scotch and blinked his watering eyes.

"Mr. Avery," he said hoarsely and stopped short. He visibly gathered himself and tried again. "Thank you, Stephen, for your honesty." He set his paper cup down and refreshed it, offering Stephen more as well. Stephen accepted, wondering why Finch wasn't already handcuffing him. Finch drank his scotch slowly, his eyes on Stephen's face.

The silence lengthened into a maddening tension.

"Are you going to arrest me?" Stephen asked at last.

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?" Stephen was more than a little confused by Finch's behavior. "Five minutes ago you were antagonistic to the extreme, yet now that I have answered your questions honestly, we are chums?"

"We aren't chums," Finch assured him. "But my instincts aren't screaming for your blood anymore, either." He eyed the slightly younger man, noting the steadiness in Stephen's hands, the outward calm. "You've just confessed to multiple homicides, sitting in the middle of the police station, and your hands aren't even trembling. Now I have to ask myself if this makes you a true lunatic or something, no, someone special." He hesitated, realizing something. "Did you find out where they got their orders? Their employers? Anything helpful?"

"Nothing helpful to you, Mr. Finch." Stephen replied.

"Which means you did and you'll follow it up yourself." Finch pointed a finger at him. "I do not approve of vigilantes, Stephen; we have due process for a reason."

"And if those whose hands are dirty, whose crimes are grave and truly evil, if they are above the law," Stephen whispered. "What then? If due process releases these villains back into the very society it is meant to defend but cannot, who should answer the summons of Justice? It is true that Law and Justice should be twins, but they are as disparate as night and day. On some occasions do they agree but, as oft as not, they bicker." His voice trembled with passion. "I believe in Justice over Law, Mr. Finch, the primal dictate: An eye for an eye and what you sow, you reap. The Law cannot give me that, only Justice can." He fell silent suddenly, the passion cooling as he reached for his cup. "My opinion, of course," he said lightly. "You are not required to agree with it."

Eric was quiet, his eyes on the man before him but his vision was fixed on something from the past. A television broadcast, more than a year and a half ago, a calm and rational voice delivering a speech to the populace that was seditious and dangerous.

"I have begun to agree with it," he said faintly. "A dangerous point of view for a policeman, I believe." He put down his empty cup. "And I think I am beginning to believe in miracles."

Stephen stared at him, astonishment on his face. "That's an odd admission."

"I saw a man die once," Eric said slowly. "And yet I think I have seen him again, walking about on two legs."

Stephen studied the contents of his cup. "There is something beyond the grave; death does not end all, and the pale ghost escapes from the vanquished pyre."1 He muttered the lines, his voice low but Eric heard him. The younger man finished his scotch. Putting the cup on the desk before him, he lifted his eyes to Eric. "Are you done with me?"

"Hardly." Eric got to his feet and gestured Stephen to rise. The younger man obeyed, expecting to be handcuffed despite Eric's earlier refusal. "Come on, I will take you to your car, Stephen. You are fit to drive, aren't you?"

Stephen nodded silently. Eric walked him through the police station and outside to the kerb. Side by side, they strolled toward the policemen's garage. Eric glanced up at the taller man. "You will take care of Evey?"

"To the last breath of my body." Matter of fact, the words were fiercely honest.

"Whatever information you got the other night," Eric said softly. "I will leave it in your hands. I hope that you will understand my concerns for Evey and the fact that I didn't recognize you prompted me to treat you as an enemy."

"Why should you have recognized me?" Stephen looked down at the policeman curiously. "We have never met before the other night."

"No, we didn't, although I saw you once before." Eric tucked his hands in his pockets. "You were…sleeping."

_You're Evey Hammond, aren't you?_

Stephen shook his head. "It seems very unlikely." They paused at his car, the sleek black vehicle waiting its master. Stephen regarded it fondly, reaching out to caress the glossy paint. "I see you took care of her." He nodded. "I will take my leave now, if you don't mind, Mr. Finch. I have an errand to run and then off for home." The cop offered him his keys silently. "Good afternoon." He got in the car without waiting for his companion to reply and drove away.

Eric watched him leave, thinking of a bier of red roses and a battered white mask. He shuddered then walked back to his office.

Stephen found a quiet garage and parked the car. He had no doubt that some sort of tracking device was in place somewhere in the car and he had no intention of leading the police to the place he was headed. The little dagger nestled in the small of his back was a welcome companion, although he thought of the six lovelies that graced a ridiculous mannequin in the British Museum with a rush of longing. They'd been his friends for a very long time, their names etched in his heart. Sighing, he turned his attention to the work at hand.

It took perhaps an hour to reach the Crow and Cock. Stephen eyed the place with distaste. There were subtle signs of Norsefire's affiliation and he felt dirty, knowing he had to enter its doors. Adopting a slightly belligerent attitude, he sauntered inside and took a seat at the bar. The barkeep looked him over then asked for his order.

"A shot of whiskey and a pint," Stephen demanded. He was served quickly. He picked up the shot and muttered over it, the most unpopular words of the current government. "England Prevails." He had no chance to tip the drink to his lips. A meaty hand caught his arm, the grip painful.

"Sutler Sympathizer!" Someone spat at him. He sneered at his attackers.

"God rest his soul," he snarled. Swinging his free hand, he caught his attacker in the mouth, feeling the impact jolt up his arm. "He was a God-fearing Englishman, and I was proud to serve him. Don't like it? Fuck off!"

Half the men in the room had gotten to their feet. Stephen didn't let the number disturb him. He'd faced more before. He kept up the pretense that he was arrogant and ready to fight, a Fingerman's attitude, the bluff of a bully or someone truly savage.

Let them guess which it really was.

A voice rose above the murmurs. "Stand down, stand down, ya bastards. Look at 'im!" A hard eyed man with a scarred face moved toward Stephen, his eyes bright. "It's Avery's boy, Stevie." He held out a hand to Stephen. "Hullo, lad. A good Fingerman is always welcome at the Crow and Cock!" Stephen accepted the man's touch, forcing himself not to cringe. "Has your father finally gotten word to you?"

"I haven't seen 'im" Stephen forced a grin. "I'd heard that this was a place for our sort and I fancied a drink." He looked around, seeing the hostility fade off the faces around him. "I just wanted to drink to the High Chancellor again, to remember what it was like."

"You're in the right place, lad. No fear." The man drew him to one side, sitting him to a table and taking the seat opposite. "Stevie Avery, as I live and breathe. You vanished after that little jaunt to Larkhill. We thought you got eaten by the survivors up there."

Stephen sneered. "Hardly. I spent a few weeks hunting down the last of the escapees and then got new orders. I spent the time since doing work out of the country. All very hush-hush." He laid a finger aside his nose. "Making sure that no one forgets that England prevails, if you see my point."

"Your da must be proud of you."

Stephen shrugged. "My father," he said flatly. "Pays very little attention to me. It would be weak of him to do otherwise." His drinks were set before him and he savored the scotch. It was a far better brand than the stuff Eric had offered but Eric's had tasted of freedom and cleanliness. This tasted of blood and tears. He drank it as though it were ambrosia, fighting the urge to vomit. "It's good to be back among the fold, shepherd."

The code words elicited a chuckle from the other man. "Well met, little lamb. My name's Palmer. This pub is mine and the son of Atherton Avery is welcome here. Old Avery signed me up himself and made me third in line to Creedy. "

"God rest him." Stephen said automatically. He remembered the feel of Creedy's throat in his hands, the joy at sending the bastard to hell. He blinked, trying to remember what he was here for. "I was back in the country only six days when Parliament went down. I've been moving one place to another, trying to find a safe base. Six months is more than enough of this shit. I want to move against the provisional government…"

"Hush, boy!" Palmer shook his head. "There are plans in motion already. Be careful what you say or you'll end up in gaol." He grinned. "You got your id?"

Stephen nodded." Our shields are our authority, Palmer."

"Keep it hidden. If the police find it, they'll bury you in a cell and we need every man we can get." Palmer tapped the table. "There's a project in the works, my lad, and with that pretty boy face of yours, you might just be perfect for it." He fingered the scar on his face. "I'd have volunteered but for that seditious bastard in the mask."

"Shall I report to you then? I couldn't find my last commander."

"Aye. I'll get word to the uppers and see what they want to do with you. For now, you'll be my boy and I'll see if I can't get you a decent bit of work." Palmer fished in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. "Here, take this and keep it with you all the time. Only people who have this number are loyalists. I'll call you with your new orders."

"Thank you, shepherd. I was afraid I would be wandering a while yet." Stephen pocketed the small phone.

"Alright, drink your beer and go. It doesn't do for any of us to stay in one place for long." Palmer heaved himself out of his chair. "Don't come back here within the month unless you are summoned. The provisionals are always looking for us, trying to trip us up."

Stephen finished his beer and slid from his seat. The liquor gurgled in his stomach but he forced himself to walk steadily from the bar, knowing that there were eyes on his every move.

Ha made it a few lanes over and hastily ducked into a narrow alley. Silently he voided his stomach, retching until nothing else came up. Then he leaned against the rough brick wall, his knees like jelly, to catch his breath.

Shame burned in him like V's hatred had. He closed his eyes, letting his head rest against the brick behind him. The weight of the little leather wallet and the bright shield with its two crimson crosses was heavier on his conscience than anything he had done as V. To escape Bridgewood, he'd sold his soul and joined the party his father served. The same party that was using his beloved brother as a laboratory rat, the party that had executed his brilliant darling mother for her work as a proofreader. Joining had gotten him out of Bridgewood and given him a certain liberty to travel.

By the time he'd gotten to Larkhill, it had been to find the place in a shambles, fire burning the place to the ground. He'd seen Delia Surridge's face as she given her testimony to another Fingerman, hiding his face from her view, and knew that the person she'd seen in the fire was his brother. He felt it intensely and split from the rest of his detail to follow his instincts. As always, he found his brother, for V could never hide from him.

They were identical, even though V's body carried the scars and burns of his ordeal and Viv looked as he always had. Inside they were a matched pair.

A week passed while he tended V, a week of silence and the terrible fear that V would die and leave him again. Finally the ruined face turned toward him, the charred flesh a silent condemnation, and V had tried to smile. "You should have let me die, Viv."

The man remembered his reaction, a roiling horror. "V, you need to heal. Just sleep. I'll take care of you."

"Who'll take care of you, Viv?" The brown eyes were full of grief. "You're a Fingerman now."

Viv bowed his head. "I saw no other way, V. I couldn't escape Bridgewood and this was the only road I could take."

V sighed. "Needs must when the devil drives," he whispered. "I know you did it for me and I am grateful. I just can't approve."

Stephen lifted a hand to his face, feeling for the mask that had been his comfort and his refuge. It wasn't there anymore. He had to show his real face now, for V was dead and Stephen could have his own life again. He regretted drinking at the Crow and Cock, regretting steeping himself in the terrible betrayal of his family, regretted not telling Eric Finch what little he knew.

What was he doing?

He had a new life now, free of the darkness of the tube tunnels, the Shadow Gallery, the unrelenting loneliness. He had another chance with Evey, fate had seen to it. Wasn't he allowed to lay down the fight to others? Hadn't spending 20 years planning and executing a long voluptuous revenge given him the right to want something of his own? Hadn't he paid for his past mistakes? Blotted out the errors in blood spilled for V and more, the victims of the illness born in V's blood, the same blood he bled when Creedy shot him? Hadn't he bled enough for both himself and his twin? Couldn't he lay down his vendetta at last?

He covered his face in his hands, the knowledge wearing on him, acid eating into his new-found hope. The canker still nestled in the heart of England, waiting its chance to devour the country again. Its poison reached for the one thing he craved and he could prevent her destruction. The dream came back to him then, V's simple question.

_Why did Creedy kill Sutler? Hands don't attack their masters. Why?_

Because Creedy called another man master, of course.

Palmer had revealed it in their conversation. "Avery made me third in line to Creedy…" Creedy's master had been Atherton Avery and Avery still owned the Fingermen. Stephen would have to match wits with his father to protect Evey and that was no simple endeavour.

* * *

1) Sextus Propertius


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Thank you to all my reviewers, you guys really make my day. I suppose you have noticed the change in the rating of the done for last chapter's language but also in preparation for this chapter. This chapter contains SMUT. Pure all-out smut. If you think it's any good, pray let your views be heard. If you like it, I'll make sure to add more to the mix. LOL- edited 09/10/07. A light touch and 'tis done. ES

Disclaimers: Okay, we've pretty well established that I do not own V and am toying with the characters for my own (and your) amusement. I must say that I also do not own HIM, Ville Valo, or the song The Sacrament. I felt the words conveyed more about this chapter's action than anything I could have written myself. It was my mood music, so to speak. All hail Valo, as he is an awesomely sexy singer. I would like to own him, but sadly it is an illegal thing in my land and I must do without.

* * *

**Settling Affairs**

_Gallowsmere_

Stephen washed the last of his dishes and set them in the drainer. He whisked off the simple apron, tossed it down on the counter and bounded upstairs. He wore a warm-up suit, the fabric black and comfortable against his skin, and he needed his trainers to start his day.

_39 hours._

He shook his head. It annoyed him that his mind would not let go of its continual countdown. It had been 39 hours since Finch had made his declaration about Evey wanting to see him again. Every time the thought crossed his mind, Stephen ached for her and he hated the distraction. He needed to be at his best and eight months without training, without discipline, meant he was far from peak.

Trainers in place, he jogged downstairs, vaulting over the railing about halfway down. He landed soundlessly, ridiculously pleased at that small victory, and made his way outside. He set off across the lawn, running lightly, just getting into the feel of his body again. Gallowsmere had about fifteen acres of good land and another five or so of trees and mire. Stephen settled down to a steady run, monitoring the time

_39.5 hours_

…it took for him to make a full circuit of the property. He turned the trees into obstacles, zagging between them at top speed, laughing aloud when he realized he was in better shape than he could have hoped. One tree slanted at a 45 degree angle, half fallen against its siblings and he raced up the slope of it, much as he had once raced up rooftops. He vaulted from the apex and landed running. The freedom to move gave his feet wings and he made excellent time.

Coming back to the yard, he caught up a pair of batons he'd set out and began the katas he knew. The batons were roughly the size of his old blades, a trifle heavier, and he closed his eyes as he practiced, remembering the long dark nights in the Shadow Gallery as he prepared for a move against Sutler's forces. He fought his imaginary enemies until the batons felt like lead bars in his hands.

_42 hours_.

Nothing stopped the clock. Stephen started the movements again, intent on reaching his old perfection. He was halfway through when someone coughed.

Startled, he whirled, one baton lifted overhead like a truncheon, his heart jerking hard in his chest as his adrenaline levels jumped into overdrive. He found himself facing Eric Finch, the man looking more than slightly alarmed. Stephen checked himself, forcing himself to lower the baton slowly.

"Mr. Finch," he heard himself say shakily. "What a surprise."

Eric Finch nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He had seen and recognized the savage grace in the man's movements and the ferocity in his face when he'd turned. It was amazing that Stephen's reflexes had pulled that blow and kept him from striking the officer. Eric suddenly knew what the six men who'd pursued this man had found at the end of the road. He caught his breath and nodded. "Sorry to drop in on you, Stephen."

"Is something wrong?" Stephen asked, frowning.

"You haven't called her. She got worried about you and…" He glanced behind him to where a slender figure stood beside the car. Stephen caught sight of her and his heart jumped again.

"Evey."

Finch looked back at him, catching the sudden softness on Stephen's face. The expression was completely unguarded, full of adoration. When he realized that Eric was looking at him, a shutter fell over his features. "I wasn't prepared for guests." He tucked his batons under his arm. 'I've not been to market for tea or luncheon goods."

Eric chuckled. "She's not looking for lunch, lad." He waited for Stephen to join him. "I have an errand in the next borough,' he said quietly as they walked back toward the car. "It would probably take me an hour or three."

Stephen missed a step. "What?"

Eric shrugged, ignoring the slip. "Up to you, of course, but I hardly think she made me come all the way out here just to go back again." He stared straight ahead. "Would you mind entertaining her?"

Stephen's footsteps lightened. Time with Evey… he hurried forward. She stood by the car, her face somber, her eyes faintly worried. Stephen drew closer and his steps slowed as he stared at her, drinking her in. She studied his face, taking in the sheen of perspiration on his skin and the light in his eyes. She smiled shyly.

"Hello, Stephen."

His mouth curved into a smile, the pleasure kindling in his expression. "Hello, my dear girl. I am surprised to have you visit me." His eyes seemed to burn into hers. "You are a welcome sight."

She lifted her chin. "Really?" She sounded doubtful. "I haven't seen you in days."

"And I have suffered for it," he swore, laying a hand over his heart. "This poor thing had ceased to beat until I saw you again." He sighed. "I have come back to life at the sight of your face." He leaned toward her, letting his lips brush hers lightly.

In response, she giggled and stepped back. "You are very sweaty, sir."

He clutched his chest as though wounded. "Easily corrected," he promised with a grin. "Will you be staying a while?"

She dimpled up at him. "Only if you shower," she teased. "And promise to kiss me properly."

Eric cleared his throat. "Evey, I have that appointment with the police magistrate and if I don't go, I'll be late. Are you staying here or coming with?"

Evey looked at Stephen for the answer. In his eyes, she saw promises that made her belly clench in anticipation. "Staying, Eric. Thanks." She pulled a rucksack from the car as Eric moved to the driver's door. Stephen caught the look on Eric's face, an acknowledgment of sorts, and nodded. Evey's care was his responsibility until Eric returned. He watched the policeman's car pull out of the drive then led Evey inside.

"I'll go freshen up, shall I?" he asked, ensconcing her in the kitchen. "Help yourself to whatever you like." He started to move toward the stairs but her slender fingers locked around his wrist. He turned back at once and she surged up against him, her mouth finding his. The kiss was sweet and insistent, flavored with a bit of desperation.

"Evey,' he whispered when she let him up for air. "I thought…"

"You said I should help myself to whatever I like.' She smiled cheekily. 'I like tall sweaty men, well, one tall sweaty man. I don't want to waste a minute of our time, Stephen." She reached up to fluff his damp hair. "I want you, all of you, right now. I want to forget the hours since I last slept with you.'

Stephen swallowed. All those months in the Shadow Gallery, all of the feelings he'd had about her, the dreams and frustrating fantasies flooded over him. He couldn't deny her now. He didn't have to deny her. He leaned down to kiss her again, closing his eyes at the piercing sweetness of her mouth. She tasted as he'd always thought she would, her lips as soft as silk under his.

"Evey," he whispered against her mouth. She did not reply, her small hand creeping under his shirt to caress his belly. His muscles fluttered at her touch, unbearable pleasure simmering in his blood. "Ah, Evey."

"You like that." She declared with fierce happiness. "I remembered from before." He closed his eyes, nodding.

"Yes, Evey. I like that." She ran a hand to his waistband and his knees buckled. "Ah," he sighed, head rocking back, eyes closed. "Upstairs," he whispered, begging her permission. "Please, Evey, on a bed, properly. Please, love."

She had mercy on him and walked with him up the stairs, pausing now and again to kiss him. He had the sweetest expression when she kissed him, a sort of rapture every time she hesitated, his eyes turning greener with every step. He brought her to the big bed in his room and turned down the duvet for her. Evey began unbuttoning her blouse. He came to help her, his long graceful fingers making short work of the buttons. He reverently removed the garment, bending to press his lips against her belly and then looking up at her worshipfully. She saw so many things race through his eyes, expressions she could barely register before they were replaced.

"It's alright," she told him softly. "I won't break."

He looked away. "You are so young," he whispered. "What are you doing with an old man like me?"

"Youth is overrated," she said lightly. "Experience is priceless."

She caught his face in her hands, kissing his lips over and over until he pulled away to fight himself free of his track suit. Naked before her, his body was better than she remembered. She noticed scars, most of them white with age but a few were still livid. His chest was deep, his belly flat, his hips framing the evidence of his need. She shivered, her body waking to his. She shed her slacks and panties and lay down on his bed.

Even before he joined her, she felt the unbearable intimacy of this union. She was in his home, in his bed, her bare skin on his sheets. Not the neutral ground of a rented room this time. Wide eyed, she looked at him and he smiled at her, love and adoration in his eyes.

"You should have music," he said thoughtfully. He switched on a small player that sat atop the bureau. The pretty sound of a piano filled the silence. Evey closed her eyes, remembering a baby grand played by hands that shouldn't have been able to play anything. She felt his weight settle beside her on the bed and she turned her face to him as the piano was joined by a masculine voice. The words spun through Evey as Stephen's hand gently spread across her belly, banishing the memory in favor of the reality.

_I hear you breathe so far from me_

_I feel your touch so close and real_

_And I know_

_My church is not of silver and gold,_

_Its glory lies beyond judgment of souls_

_The commandments are of consolation and warmth_

He lowered his head to her shoulder, his mouth so warm and gentle as he kissed his way along her collarbone. Evey gasped when he sank lower, his hot mouth closing over her nipple. He suckled at her, his hand slipping lower. She spread her legs as he found her core, arching under his touch. He cupped her, nothing more than a gentle palm against her aching sex, and Evey cried out in surprised pleasure.

_You know our sacred dream won't fail_

_The sanctuary tender and so frail_

_The sacrament of love_

_The sacrament of warmth is true_

_The sacrament is you_

Stephen moved to her other breast, sliding his arm under her to lift her so easily to his mouth. Evey loved this strength, the careful power she felt in his muscles. She recalled watching him exercise, the lithe and forceful movements making her wet while she stood beside Eric and lusted after this man, this stranger with his secrets. She ran her hands over his body, feeling his muscles flutter in his taut belly as her fingertips searched out his secrets. She might not know him well, but there would not be a secret between their bodies when all is said and done. Evey hadn't ever minded secrets, or she would have gone mad long ago. She could feel the truth of this man in his touch on her skin, in his gasp of pleasure when she found a sensitive spot, in the words that he whispered to her, words of love that she knew were hers alone.

_I hear you weep so far from me_

_I taste your tears like you're next to me_

_And I know_

_That my weak prayers are not enough to heal_

_All the ancient wounds so deep and so dear_

_The revelation is of hatred and fear_

He rose over her, and she opened herself to him. He was gentle as he entered her body, giving her time to adjust to him. Once he was fully sheathed, he was still, his head thrown back, his body rigid with control. "Evey," he said, a world of adoration in the word. She reached for him, catching his hands, laced her fingers with his.

"Stephen." She sounded as desperate as he did. "Please."

He looked down at her and her breath caught in her throat at the intensity of his eyes. A faint smile sculpted his lips as he began the leisurely climb to pleasure. Evey couldn't look away from him, couldn't tear her eyes off of him. She felt him ebb and flow into her, his eyes showing her everything she could have dreamed of as he worshipped her body with his own.

_You know our sacred dream won't fail_

_The sanctuary tender and so frail_

_The sacrament of love_

_The sacrament of warmth is true_

_The sacrament is you_

Evey locked her ankles around his hips, her body tightening as she spiraled toward the end of the dance. Stephen covered her as he drove into her deeper than before. She felt wrapped in his love, safe in his arms, and that security gave her the strength to fall into ecstasy. She screamed his name, clutching his broad shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. As she spasmed around him, he let out a shout of joy and shuddered, driving into her again and again. He wrapped her in his arms, rolling to lie beside her, his body shaking with aftershocks. She clung to him, breathless and astonished. The first time hadn't been nearly this good and Evey had thought it wonderful. She trembled against him.

_You know our sacred dream won't fail_

_The sanctuary tender and so frail_

_The sacrament of love_

_The sacrament of warmth is true_

_The sacrament is you_

"Stephen," she whispered against his skin.

"Yes, Evey?"

There was a roughness to his voice that sent a shiver up her spine. "Stephen, thank you."

He chuckled under her ear, his heart beat strong and steady. "My dear girl, that was most definitely my pleasure." His arms tightened around her. "Thank you for giving me another chance."

She rubbed her face against his chest, taking in the warm musky scent of him. "I'm falling in love with you, I think."

He was silent for a moment. "Are you sure you want to?" Lightly asked, the question hung between them. "I am probably very shopworn and faded, compared to the young men you meet every day."

She lifted her head, trying to see his eyes. "Stephen, I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be. I like you, I have from the moment I met you. Your strength, your courage, your warmth keep bringing me back to you. I don't see you as old, I am surprised you do. You can't be that much older…"

"Nearly your age again," he interrupted. "And that bears thinking about. If you are serious about me, I won't deter you. I love you already. But I don't want you to wake one day and realize you could have had someone your own age. I don't want you to regret…"

She climbed higher on the bed, kissing him to shut him up. When she lifted her head, her eyes flashed with fire. 'Don't be so bloody noble, Stephen. You love me. I'm well on the way to being madly in love with you. You aren't allowed to ruin that with logic and propriety." She poked him in the chest. "Now, we've just had our first fight. Is it over? I'd like to get on with the making up if we are."

She found him smiling up at her with genuine affection. "I have to say the magic words, I think," he mused, his eyes gleaming.

"And they are?" she challenged.

His black hair was tousled into curls, his eyes as green as emeralds, as he looked up at her. He was beautiful to her, his mouth smirking at her impatience. "The magic words," he said slowly. "Every man knows them and knows how powerful they are. They can solve every issue between a man and a woman." Evey poked him again, fighting the urge to laugh. He blinked and then smiled brilliantly at her. "The magic words are: Yes, Dear."

She collapsed against him, laughing, his body vibrating with the deep joyful laugh she loved. She realized that she wasn't falling for him, she already had.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: edited 09/10/07. I never had a note on this chapter. I missed it in the original posting and am just now correcting it. Long delayed but still valid, I hope. I hope the edit meets with your approval. ES

Disclaimer: I do not possess the wonders of the V-verse. If I could wrest them from their owners and carry them into the darkness to force them into the servitude of the Sphinx, I would, you betcha. But alas, not mine and nothing will change it. I own nothing but the deranged thoughts of my troubled mind.

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**Rejoicing, Relocation, and Regrets**

Stephen drowsed on the bed, half awake but not quite. The windows were open, a breeze drifting across the bed, stroking him like a lover's touch. Evey's touch, he thought with great satisfaction.

_He felt warmth against his back, so like when his brother would share the bed with him, that he felt young again. A boy on the verge of adulthood, just a teenager but with a bright future ahead of him. University would bring changes, of course, and he would learn to be… What did he want to be? Everything. He chuckled at his own silliness. Probably a doctor. Perhaps a solicitor. Hmmm. He liked the law, enjoyed the check and balance of legalities. He sighed in his sleep._

_Days sped past like a paperback flipped into a fan, each day a page, moving faster than he could see. He glimpsed his mother's face, her laughter gone, as she was dragged from the house. He and his brother were restrained by Creedy's blackbaggers, shouting out…_

_The image changed to Creedy's hateful face. He loomed over Stephen and V, his voice harsh._

_"Your father says to give you a choice. Either you join the Fingermen as you ought or it's off to detention with you." He sneered at them both. "You'll get no preferential treatment either way."_

_Stephen winced, turning his face deeper into the pillows. Bastard. The two of them had stared up at him, both uttering the one word that damned them._

_"Recusant." The word held power, old power, from the days of Shakespeare and Elizabeth the First._

_"I am recusant." V's voice mingled with his as they chanted it, mocking Creedy's ignorance. "We are recusant, we defy you, and we will not kneel to Norsefire!" He repeated his defiance. "I am recusant!" The words thrummed through him, victorious and vicious. "I am my mother's son!"_

_"Right." Creedy's voice had been gloating. "You will be your father's sons when we finish with you or you'll be dead."_

"Stephen?"

Evey's voice shattered the dreaming memory, bringing Stephen fully awake. His lover draped an arm over him. "Are you alright, Stephen? You were talking in your sleep."

"I'm fine," he said, soothing her arm with light strokes. He wondered what he'd said. "I was dreaming."

"Bad one? You sounded angry." She shifted behind him. "You sounded young."

"It wasn't a pleasant dream," he sighed. Glancing at his watch, he marked the time with a start. "We've got to get up, Evey, unless you want Mr. Finch to find you gracing my bed. He's due back shortly."

"Mmmm." She hummed against his shoulder. "Might shock him."

"He's a policeman," Stephen reminded her. "He might shoot me for contributing to the delinquency of a minor."

She swatted him. "You aren't old, you bloody minded man. You're seasoned, perfect to my taste." She bit his shoulder, and then soothed the gentle bite with a kiss. "Can we shower together?"

"Oh, I don't know." He rolled to a sitting position. "If you are going to use the perfumey girly stuff, I'll pass." He glanced back at her, his smile making the threat a lie. "I'm not sure that the shower is up to the both of us. It's small."

"I like close quarters." She smiled lazily, not at all concerned with getting up. As he took in the expanse of bare skin, his mouth went dry and his body warmed with want. Her eyes drifted down to the evidence of his attention and she smiled wider. It was an evil womanly smile and he turned back to her.

It took a bit of coaxing and some negotiation but Stephen and Evey managed the shower together, enjoying one another. Evey noticed his scars but she said nothing and Stephen didn't offer explanations. He hated the questioning look in her eyes and his inability to give her the answers she wanted. When they were dressed again, they went outside to the back porch and sat in the late afternoon sun.

"Evey," Stephen said slowly. "Do you want me to come to town?" She was leaning against him, her legs drawn under her. At his question, she looked up.

"But this is your home." She frowned. "I wouldn't ask you to give up your home for me."

"I have a place in London," he admitted. "I came here for the peace and quiet, but I have a flat in London that I got back after the fall of the Norsefire party. It's been neglected, I am sure, but probably not so badly I couldn't get it back into shape."

She brightened. "You would come to London? Be that close to me?"

"I would." He smiled at her. "It would spare Mr. Finch from having to ferry you out here." He leaned back in the seat. "I would still have to come here several times a week, to keep up with the repairs and not let the old beast fall into further disrepair."

He added that last to explain the absences that would come of his actions among the Fingermen. Getting into Palmer's good graces would take some doing and being in London gave more visibility on his part than he liked. He wished the Shadow Gallery were still available to him and wondered how difficult it would be to find a way back into its hallowed halls. He could practice there, alone and free to work his body back into obedience. Now that he knew where the danger to Evey originated, he wanted to be prepared for the Fingermen when they came.

He reached up and ran a hand through his hair, the thick black curls tangling around his fingers. So different from the smooth silky wig, his cheek soft where the mask had been hard. He felt so exposed suddenly, so out of his depth. "Evey, would you like me closer?"

"Desperately." She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. "I would like the chance to stay with you sometimes, not have to leave suddenly, just because I need to be home or somewhere important."

His heart ached. He wrapped an arm around her, tucking her head under his chin and breathing in her scent. "If I had to choose a home," he whispered. "Anywhere in this world, it would be wherever you are, Evey. I wouldn't count the walls and ceilings, the brick or mortar as my home. Home will always be somewhere close to that organ inside you that says my name when it beats."

She clutched at him, her fingers gripping him with almost painful intensity. "That's beautiful, Stephen." Her voice was tearful and he didn't ask why, just lifted her onto his lap and cradled her like a child. They were like that when Eric drove up.

He got out of the car, watching them separate silently, as though all the words that needed to be said between them had been exhausted. Evey went upstairs to get her rucksack, leaving the two men together. Stephen met Eric's questioning glance passively.

"Did your meeting go well?"

Eric nodded. "And did yours?" he asked wryly. Stephen chuckled.

"I like you better when you aren't after me," Stephen said. He sighed. "You won't have to make this trip again," he continued seriously. "I'll be moving back into London proper within the week."

"For her?" Eric's eyes were sharp. "Or because of what you found out?"

"There is no difference between the two, Mr. Finch." Stephen's voice had dropped to a low purr, softened to keep it carrying inside.

Eric shivered at the memory of a dead man's voice. He'd doubted himself since their last meeting, but now he didn't. He was certain. Stephen's eyes darkened as they stared at one another. "I may ask you for help in the future, Mr. Finch, and the request may come at odds with your due process. Will that prove a difficulty to you?"

"It would depend upon what you asked me to do, Mr. Avery."

"Much of it is what you do already: foster Evey's faith, forefend Mother England's foes, ferret out felonious Fingermen and fight the fears of freemen." The alliterative sentence was spoken with easy fluidity; Stephen's grasp of language was evident in his mastery of his mother tongue. "But I may need you to focus on one thing over another. I will give you whatever notice I can." He glanced toward the house. "I am currently incapable of giving you anything more than this rather vague forewarning."

Eric frowned at him, his eyes full of conflict. Finally, he thrust out a hand. "I will do what I can for you, should the need arise. You'll understand if I hope it does not."

Stephen took the offered hand, his grip firm and steady. "I share your hopes, Mr. Finch. I am not so optimistic, however. There is a threat, it is real, and it is something I must be certain to face warily." For a moment, Eric saw the man beneath the pleasant façade. Stephen's eyes deepened with concern, exhaustion radiated from the lines of his face, it was the expression some policemen get when they have done the job too long and they are jaded with the uselessness of it. Eric gripped his hand harder, making Stephen focus on him.

"_Fiat justitia ruat coelum_." He hoped his grade school Latin was up to the test. Stephen stared at him, mouth dropping open. Then he laughed delightly, returning Eric's grip.

"Let Justice be done though heaven should fall," he translated. "I have always liked that one, Mr. Finch. At one time it was a personal motto." He pumped the policeman's hand. "Indeed, sir, I believe I will like you better as friend than foe."

Eric privately thought the same. Stephen's display earlier had left an impression. The man was fast, powerful and disciplined. As an enemy, he would no doubt be ruthless in his pursuit of his opponent. Eric felt a pang of pity for the person or persons Stephen had his sights set upon. Evey had counted the vigilante V as her friend. Eric knew what little she would say and if he were right (_he was, he knew it_!), Stephen would risk everything to ascertain Evey's safety.

Evey appeared at that moment, her smile brilliant at the two of them standing together. She came to stand before Stephen. "I'll miss you," she told him. As Stephen leaned down to kiss her, Eric looked away. He realized that Evey had no idea who she was touching; she thought she'd found someone new. He wondered when or if Stephen would tell her the truth and decided he didn't want to know.

"I will be in London before week's end," Stephen promised. "You will have to help me decorate the flat. I have no talent in that regard."

Eric fought the urge to snort. The Shadow Gallery had been a treasure trove of beauty and luxury. Stephen knew exactly what he liked, he was just giving Evey a chance to nest and make an impression on his home. Evey smiled up at Stephen adoringly.

"I won't use the girly perfumey stuff," she promised gravely.

Stephen helped Evey into the car, exchanged a farewell nod with Eric and watched them drive away. He felt alone as he entered the house, the walls eerily silent now that Evey was gone. Going into the kitchen, he rummaged in the cabinets for something to eat. Settling for a bit of bacon and some egg salad, he sat at the table and pondered his next course of action.

Moving back to London, back into the thick of the shadowy world of Norsefire operatives, he was opening himself up to a number of dangers. Palmer wasn't bright and he'd remembered Stephen which meant that Stephen's name would be going to the upper echelons. It would catch his father's attention. Stephen needed to keep to his story of being sent overseas with another detachment of Fingermen. There weren't many records of the darker jobs. Stephen had proven himself good at the nastier aspects of his father's work.

He'd killed. A lot. There was blood on his hands that would never be washed away. It would not matter how many injustices he righted, how many innocents he protected, whatever penance he put himself through, it would never bring back one soul he'd dispatched during his stint with the Fingermen. Years of isolating himself in the Shadow Gallery, never interacting with any other human, cutting himself off from life and taunting himself with the fantasy worlds of books and films… None of that brought him any peace. He was tormented by V's memories, the whispered recollections of his brother's revelations in the dark, he was tormented by his own memories of Bridgewood and his shame at having surrendered to the pressure, to joining the Fingermen.

He cradled his head in his hands, fingers threading through his hair. Before Evey, he would have designed some perfectly elegant and long-range plan, set up the circumstances to favor his own survival, and then unleashed his own particular brand of vengeance upon his enemies. Evey complicated matters greatly. He'd made her important when he'd put V's vendetta in her hand. The Gunpowder Plot redux. What had Evey done but set in motion the plan he'd always had? That act had her first in line for the retaliation of Norsefire. She wouldn't be hunted now if he'd let her go then. If he'd resisted the madness of taking her into his abode and making her… a gentler him.

That was what he'd done with his savage and sadistic game of torture and incarceration. V would never have done that to her but Stephen had. He'd had a bitter dose of the evil of the camps, he'd dished out her serving, hating himself and even hating her when she proved as strong as V, stronger that Stephen had been. Evey hadn't yielded; she'd looked through him defiantly as she requested her death be served up promptly. Stephen knew he'd driven her to understand the darkness in the souls of the men running England and why they needed cleaning out. She had to know what she was facing. He couldn't let her leave him after the fifth still naïve about the government, ignorant of her personal and societal danger.

Evey hadn't broken until she realized he'd done it to her.

Her horror and betrayal flayed through the mask and man beneath it. He felt her anguish to his soul but watched the butterfly struggling from its cocoon as she gasped and fought him. He wanted to help her but it would have undone the torture he had meted out. She would never have flown without the struggle and the labor that strengthened her wings. The rain soothed her but didn't cool her rage.

And she'd used her new wings to fly away at the first opportunity.

He had accepted it. It was his lot to suffer loss upon loss. She'd gone, the one person who knew how to find him, and he let her go, almost hoping the police, the military, the Fingermen would come. When the silence fell over him, he went into his room and flung the hated mask at the mirror, shattering the reflection of his deception, and he had buried his real face in his hands and wept. His tears had been scalding, bitter and from the deepest part of heart. He wept as he had not wept for his mother. He wept as he had not wept for his brother. He wept because the best part of him had turned her back and walked away.

He wept because it was exactly what he deserved.

Now he had a second chance with her. She'd shared his bed, her generosity humbling him, and he knew that it was not going to last. She would find out what he truly was and she'd leave him again. How could she ever accept that she was sleeping with a Fingerman? How could she ever accept that V was a lie, a tribute to the stronger of the Avery brothers, a tribute to vengeance and rage and bitterness, a vendetta borne of his own failure to be what V needed to heal? He'd failed V once but not with every member of the Larkhill staff, not with Sutler, not with Creedy.

Stephen realized he was crying, tears rolling down his cheeks as he sat in numb contemplation. He shuddered. He would not fail Evey. Better she should walk away from him, to live a good life with someone who loved her, than that the Fingermen should get hold of her. He would not fail, he could not. He would survive her defection but not her death. He could not take on one more death to his credit, especially not hers, which was more important to him than his own.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: Reviewers, revel in this revelation! Behold another chapter for your pleasure.-edited 09/11/07. More than half of the edit is complete now. I hope that you enjoy this little labor of love. I have enjoyed it immensely. ES

Disclaimers: Tra-la-la! Still I own nothing but my laptop, Esme. Please, great and mighty masters of the V-verse, don't sue me and take her away! I own nothing, I make nothing but pretty sentences in cyberspace.

* * *

**Housekeeping and Keeping Secrets**

The move to London took less time than Stephen thought.

He locked up Gallowsmere after dispensing with any spoilables, then packed his valise into his car and set off. He felt apprehensive at the relocation. Being in the center of London was both home and hell, for although he'd spent the vast majority of the last 20 years in the city, he'd spent them far underground, hidden and alone. He had not lived above the ground during most of Sutler's reign, venturing into the world of people rarely.

As a Fingerman, Stephen had been sufficiently well known to be trusted. Part of that trust was based upon his heritage, part of it upon his reputation for violence. For the first few years after his brother's suicide, he moved among Creedy's men, gleaning what information he could, then returned to the Shadow Gallery only to reemerge as V, taking action against the men who'd thought him a comrade often mere hours before. Devious as that course was, it took its toll on Stephen. When he woke up one night and could not recall who he was, he chose the vendetta over everything else. One of his first acts afterward had been to destroy the Fingerman who acted as his direct superior. That way, he dropped effectively off the Fingerman's radar.

Stephen located his apartment building and pulled into the garage. He'd already called to have several things taken care of: the utilities, a cleaning service, and a bed had been delivered the day before. He knew that the apartment was empty of all else but it seemed foolish to purchase any furnishings without Evey's approval. He wanted her to enjoy her time with him, surrounded by things that made her happy. He got on the lift and rode it to the proper floor. His key worked in the lock easily and he let himself inside.

The apartment was a spacious two bedroom/one bath flat with wide windows and a balcony. Stephen wandered through the emptiness, double checking the one feature that had decided him on the flat. Through the smaller of the two bedrooms, the window opened to a narrow alleyway with a rooftop a mere yard or so away. It had proven useful on more than one occasion when he, as V, needed an immediate bolt hole or a place to stash something in transit to the Shadow Gallery. He felt safer with the extra exit, all told, and turned his thoughts to whatever needed to come next.

The kitchen was fairly large but completely empty. He would need food and utensils. That would have to come first. He made a mental note to attend to that at once. One could not wine and dine a young lady with so much as a skillet or a kettle. He liked to cook actually, there was such order in recipes and the blending of flavors. It seemed to him that he was most often in the kitchen so his tastes could run rampant there.

He made a shopping list of necessities, items like linens, towels, soap, and other sundries then trekked back to the lift and went down to the street level again. He got directions from the doorman to the nearest shops and set out to stretch his legs.

He was uncomfortable at once.

There were so many people that he blinked at the sight of them, all walking around, colorful and loud. Cars whizzed past him, horns sounding at odd intervals. He swallowed his anxiety with difficulty. This was not the London he'd haunted for more than fifteen years in secret. His London was dark, bleak, the only activity on the streets or alleyways the nefarious deeds of Creedy's cronies. He didn't remember ever seeing so many people in one place since he was processed into Bridgewood. This was an alien world, strange and baffling, that he needed to find his way through. It was Evey's world and the only way to be with her was here in this madhouse.

He tried to take it slowly, tried to blend in with the crowds, but there seemed to be people everywhere. They pushed past him on the sidewalk, jostled him as he tried to decide where he was going and he felt his tension rising with every moment. The instincts that served him so well in the dark, the sensitive nerves that alerted him to danger and kept him safe, were screaming that everything was dangerous. He tried to rationalize it but it did nothing to ease his tension. He hadn't felt this way going to the Crow and Cock. What was different this time? Logic apparently had taken a holiday. He was running on sheer determination, too stubborn to retreat and too overwhelmed to think clearly.

He entered a glass door, finding himself in a large variety store. There were fewer people here and his tension eased a little. He managed to find the house wares section and began searching the racks for what he needed. He chose several sheet sets, several toweling sets, and then discovered the kitchen goods. The sight of the gleaming pots and pans pushed his panic to the back of his consciousness and he lost himself in contemplation of cookware types.

The cookware did him in financially, at least in liquid cash. He paid the bill without quibbling, the pots were an excellent investment after all, and arranged to have them delivered to his flat. He sighed wearily. He had to go and pull more money through the electronic system to go and buy groceries. He got directions from the clerk, a young lady with pink and blue hair and wide admiring eyes. Thanking her, he was surprised when she blushed hotly and stammered "You're quite welcome."

He found the automated teller and inserted his card into it. He preferred to shop with cash as the transactions could not be traced. He withdrew a sizable amount and slipped it into his wallet. He thought how amusing it was that cash that had been held by Sutler was now buying him his daily bread. He braved the sidewalk for the second time and his anxiety ratcheted up again. Stephen tried to ignore the churning of his stomach and lengthened his stride to hurry to his next stop.

He'd gotten no farther than the next block when someone slammed into his chest. As he reeled from the impact, he felt the faintest brush against his back pocket. He spun, ignoring the person before him, and latched on to the hand that was withdrawing with his wallet.

A young man, his pierced lip and tattooed face showing surprise, jerked back from him. Stephen didn't let go of the young man. He held on with a grip like iron and the young man's eyes narrowed dangerously. There was a sound that rang in Stephen's senses like a homecoming: a knife slipping free from its sheath.

"Leggo, mate," the young man threatened darkly. "Or I'll cut ya."

"Really?" Stephen smiled, the expression feline and eager. "Think you can?" He twisted the hand suddenly and savagely, feeling the bones grate against one another. The young man yelped. "Little boys shouldn't play with sharp things. Accidents might happen." He twisted harder. The young man tried to break away. Stephen chuckled. "May I have my wallet back?"

"I ain't gotcher walle…Ow!" The boy tried to cut Stephen's hand but succeeded in injuring himself. Stephen shifted slightly, his back turning to the wall to prevent anyone attacking him from behind.

"My wallet, please." He sounded smug. A stern voice broke through his enjoyment.

"Here, what is this?"

Stephen looked up and found a policeman staring at him. He gestured at the boy with his free hand. "This young man tried to steal my wallet, Officer." He shrugged. "Now he won't give it back."

"This bugger's crazy!" the boy squawked. "He attacked me for no reason!"

"He's holding my wallet," Stephen retorted reasonably. "If he gives it back, he can go."

He refused to relent on the matter. The wallet was his, the money was his blood money and he wasn't going to surrender either one without a significant reason.

* * *

Eric Finch approached the bars of the holding cell. Its lone occupant was seated on a bench against the wall, legs crossed and eyes closed. As Eric came to a halt, the man sighed. "Good afternoon, Mr. Finch." His voice was weary.

"Stephen." Eric eyed the man curiously. Stephen's eyes were still closed and he seemed peaceful. "Have you already moved back to town?"

"Today, as a matter of fact." Stephen lifted his head. "Interesting city you have here, Mr. Finch. I was just doing a little shopping and got waylaid by a ruffian." He rubbed scraped knuckles. "After that, things got a little…rough."

"You assaulted an officer, Stephen, in the course of doing his duty." Eric frowned. "We don't allow that sort of behaviour as a rule."

"Well." Stephen got to his feet, his eyes bright. "I felt offended when the officer made me let the boy loose and the lad hared off. If I'd been a half-tic slower, I'd have lost the brat in the crowd." He drew close to the bars, grinning. "When the officer told me I hadn't the right to retrieve my own wallet from the boy's pocket, I felt compelled to hit him." He shrugged, looking not the least repentant. "I suppose I should have awaited your due process?"

"Looking at it that way," Eric said slowly. "I can see your point." He sighed, looking at the bars that separated them. "And when they put in the other cell, with the other prisoners? What happened then?"

"Someone seemed to think that they could put hands on me." Stephen shook his head. "I only threw the first punch, after that it was an all-out brawl. Truly I tried to stay out of it as much as possible."

"Mm-hmm." Eric sighed. "I see." He met the other man's eyes. "Are you ready to come out of there now?"

"It's very quiet here, Mr. Finch." Stephen looked back at the empty room behind him. "It's the first peace I've had in this city since I left my flat."

The policeman nodded. "I got the charges waived, Stephen, and you can have your wallet back, of course. Would you like a lift home?"

Stephen brightened for a moment at the offer then his smile slowly faded. "As little as I wish to brave that madness, Mr. Finch," he said slowly. "I must refuse." He leaned close to the bars. "This block is empty, is it not?" he asked softly. Frowning, Eric nodded. "I must confide in you, Mr. Finch, and what I tell you must be for your ears alone. It will color how you see me, which I do not wish, but I expect things will move quickly now. I would be a fool to think otherwise."

He bent his head to the bars of the cell. In a low and earnest voice, he put into words the secrets he had shared with no one who still drew breath and into Eric Finch the trust that he hadn't even shared with Evey. When he finished speaking, almost an hour later, there was a long silence. Stephen kept his head down, waiting as it were for the axe to fall.

"Is there any reason I should believe you?" Finch asked sharply. Stephen lifted his head, his eyes full of agony.

"It is the truth, Mr. Finch. I have told you what I can." He shuddered. "It is the truth. That is my only hope, my only salvation in the coil I find myself in. I warned you that I might ask you to focus upon one aspect of your duty above all others. I have asked. What is your reply?"

"You presume, Stephen, that I can do what you ask in all good conscience."

"Conscience doesn't pay in this arena, Mr. Finch. You may have one but it cannot dictate your actions."

Eric Finch stared at Stephen silently. The younger man had astonished him again. Now the agonized hazel eyes held his with desperate need and Eric wondered at the tale he'd told. Did he believe the man? Eric's logical mind refused the question but his emotions were already more than half decided.

"I can keep you in this cell," he said slowly. "Put you under protection..."

Stephen shook his head. "I cannot afford that at this time." The lines of his face were blurred with pain. His voice faltered. "When Parliament fell, I thought that England would be safe for...the people I left behind. I know now that I was wrong."

"You are asking me to take a great deal on faith, Stephen. Have you thought about the repercussions of what you are planning?"

"I think of little else, Mr. Finch." Stephen locked his hands around the bars of the cell. "I tell you again: In this endeavour, someone must triumph, either Norsefire or the provisional government. It is your choice. You must stand by Justice or the Law. I know whom you serve but which do you believe in?"


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: Thank you and thank you and thank you, everyone, for reading my story. I would especially like to thank whoever was responsible for being my 1000th hit! I have never had such a warm reception in my life and I am truly touched. Thank you to everyone who has posted a review. Feedback makes me a better writer, whether the feedback is good or bad. - edited 09/11/07. A little more detail, a little more angst. Hopefully a lot more action, a lot more fun. ES

Disclaimers: I do not own the V-verse; I have no rights to play in their sandbox. I have merely purloined the characters to play with them and I will give them back at this end of the story.

* * *

**A House Divided Against Itself Cannot Stand**

Stephen left the station house and headed toward the kerb, his body thrumming with anticipation. He moved with easy grace and an unconscious air of animal arrogance that made several passers-by turn and look at him curiously. He turned to his left at the walk and started down the street.

"Oi, Stevie!"

The masculine voice made him look behind himself sharply, his scowl fading into a wary smile. "Oi, " he replied, turning to face the man approaching him. The fellow was dressed in black slacks and a leather jacket, his narrow face giving him a strong similarity to a rodent. "Been years since I've seen you, Bart."

The narrow-faced man snorted, thrusting out a hand. "Stevie, my lad, word come down that you got in a scuff." Stephen took his hand and shook it. "Everything sorted out?"

"Some punk tried to steal my wallet," Stephen grumbled. "Ended up, I hit a cop for getting between me and the little shit." Bart laughed.

"You never was one for mucking about, were ya, Stevie?" He leaned a bit closer, his voice dropping to a confidential level. "Himself wants to see ya."

Stephen lifted one brow. "When?"

A black sedan pulled to the kerb and a door opened. "Now," Bart replied. He flashed Stephen the gun tucked under the leather jacket. "Get in the car, Stevie, we got an appointment."

Stephen's expression didn't change. His eyes shifted to dark brown and he got quietly into the car.

* * *

From the window of the station house, Eric Finch watched the entire performance, the muscle of his jaw bunching as he clenched his teeth.

He'd recognized the man who'd approached Stephen as a small time hood, a fellow once rumored to be a Fingerman, and the sedan car's arrival seemed to bode ill to him. He felt sick, his stomach tied into knots.

All that Stephen had said, all that he had told Eric, now seemed suddenly possible and terribly dangerous. Silently the Inspector turned and walked back to his office.

* * *

Stephen sat in the sedan, his hands loose upon his lap, facing the rear of the driver's head. Bart was now sitting in the passenger's seat; his head swiveled around to gaze at Stephen.

"You understand we have to be careful, Stevie," Bart said apologetically.

Stephen stifled a yawn. "Would have been nice if one of you had come and got me out earlier." He leaned his head back against the seat. "Will it be a long drive? If so, I'd like to catch a few."

Bart shook his head. "It's a bit of a drive," he agreed. "But you're pretty sure of yourself to think of sleeping at a time like this."

Stephen shook his head. "Why should I worry?" he said carelessly. "I have nothing to hide."

"Stevie, you been missing for 15 years. You can account for the time?"

Stephen barked a laugh, the sound sharp in the silence. "I can," he remarked. "But not to you. Wake me when we get there." He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

Forty minutes later, Bart called his name. "We're here, Stevie."

Stephen lifted his head and grimaced at the discomfort in his muscles. "Ah, well, let's get on with it." He let the driver open his door then slid out and to his feet. He stretched like a cat. "Lead on, Macduff, and damn'd be he who first cries "Hold Enough!"2 The quotation made him laugh aloud and Bart glanced at him anxiously.

"You feelin' alright, Stevie?"

"I'm fine." Stephen dismissed the question. He lifted his eyes to the magnificent house before him and was impressed. "Very nice." He rubbed his scraped knuckles. "Come on, Bart, let's go in. I m looking forward to seeing the old man again."

Bart looked decidedly uncomfortable. He led Stephen into the house, through the foyer and into a beautifully oak-paneled room. The room was elegant from any standpoint and Stephen admired the lovely furnishings, the Persian rug that was thick as fur under his feet and the portrait hung over the fireplace that depicted an older man and a much younger woman. He studied the picture, recognizing his own features in the older man's face. The woman was young, long brown hair curling over her slender shoulders, her expression of calm belied by the icy expression in the dark brown eyes.

"Stephen." The voice behind him caught him off guard. He turned sharply to see the speaker. It was the older man from the portrait. Stephen offered a mocking bow, flourishing one hand out dramatically.

"Father," he said pleasantly. "How have you been? Oh, wait, let me answer for you. You've apparently been safely hidden here in your snug mansion while I've spent the last few months skulking around afraid to show my face anywhere I might be recognized. Not that you bothered to welcome me home or even remembered that I am your only living heir."

The older man gave him a freezing glare. "Stephen, you tread upon thin ice." He stepped forward, his features schooled into a forbidding scowl. "You have been missing for 15 years. No small indiscretion that and one your fellow Fingermen would like you to account for."

"_You_ account for it."

The belligerent tone made the older man's lips tighten into a frown. "Watch your tongue, boy."

Stephen folded his arms across his chest. "You ordered me out through Woolridge, Father. Like a good little lamb, I went obediently and waited for contact. I sent one message after another to Woolly trying to get cleared to come home." He held up a finger for every name that followed. "When that failed, I contacted Borden and White, then Smythe and Black Jack. To no avail. I got no return orders." He looked around, his lips curving into a bitter smile. "Fifteen years, Father! Did you just expect me to rot in the States while you lived the high life in good old England?" Anger thrummed in his voice, his body held rigidly. He stared at his father. "I did what you wanted and now you want to call me on the carpet for it?"

"I never sent you overseas." Atherton Avery seated himself in the big leather armchair. "I never issued any orders for you except to remain in London."

"Bollocks. Woolly was most precise about my plans. I did exactly what he told me to."

The older man hesitated, some of his anger turning to confusion. "Stephen, you were the pride of the Elite. Not merely a Fingerman but one of our best operatives. I would never have wasted you in the remnants of America."

Stephen's rigid posture loosened fractionally. "Woolly said it was strictly hush, straight from you." His voice carried the slightest hint of bewilderment. "I was to go and divert currency through the American system, then funnel it back into an account for Norsefire. I set it all up, made sure it worked, and then cooled my heels in that cesspool." He slammed one fist into his other palm. "Tell me where Woolridge is and I'll beat the fucking truth out of him."

"Woolridge is dead." The older man leaned forward, studying his son's face. "Every name you have mentioned is dead."

Stephen staggered, mouth falling open in horror. "What?" He looked about wildly. "What the bloody hell happened? What went wrong? A bag where there were arms in the house? Some insurgent's bomb? They get the St. Marys?" His tone edged toward desperation.

"They were killed in the line of duty, but not by any cause you have mentioned."

"Smythe and Jack were Elite," Stephen shook his head as he spoke. "We were in the same unit. I reached out to them to try and get word to you..." He wavered on his feet as his father got up and crossed to his side.

The older man shook his head. "Sit down, son, there seems to be much you have missed in your time away." He pressed Stephen to a seat on the sofa and moved to the sideboard. "Would you care for some brandy, boy?"

"Yes, sir, I think I would." Stephen leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands. "I have been sitting in the States, thinking I'd somehow gotten on your wrong side. I've driven myself mad for years, thinking that I had done something awful and you had deported me to my own personal Botany Bay." He lifted his head at a gentle nudge, accepting the offer of a snifter of brandy gratefully. "Since six days before Parliament, I've been lost. I couldn't get to Creedy, I couldn't find anyone. I searched the city but then the fifth of November happened. I find out Creedy's dead, Sutler's dead..." He sipped the brandy. "This new provisional government is out for our blood. I never saw your name in the news, not a whisper of it, so I thought you would still be somewhere. I just had no clue where to look. I only happened to come across the Crow and Cock and found Palmer."

"Well, you are home again, my boy." Atherton resumed his seat in the armchair. Swirling the brandy in his snifter, he eyed his son. "Did you manage to acquire the monies that Woolridge asked you for?" Stephen nodded.

"It's in an account under our names, Father. I am one signatory and you need only go in and sign off as the other account manager. I listed you as Atherton Avery. Will that suffice or should I change it?" Atherton shrugged.

"And how much did Woolridge have you launder?"

"At last account? Approximately five million pounds."

Atherton savored his brandy. "Lovely, Stephen. You may have just bought your way out of the noose." He met his son's eyes, smiling faintly. "You always were a resourceful lad."

Stephen looked around. "Seems like I take after you. You appear to have landed on your feet." His eyes fell upon the portrait again. "Do I have a new mother? Or a sister?"

Atherton made a disapproving noise. "Clarissa has been a great comfort to me," he said sharply. "I will not tolerate snide comments about her."

Comfort, Stephen thought bitterly. If that's what you prefer to call it. He said nothing and returned to nursing his brandy. After a few moments, he inclined his head to his father. "I apologize, Father. The news of so many changes has left me off balance."

Atherton waved off the apology. "I've no doubt it has," he remarked. "There have been a great many changes, Stephen. Changes that helped to shape the current state of affairs. I am certain that you know nothing of them if you have been living in America." He sipped his brandy. "For more than the last decade, we have been the subject of attack, Stephen. A vigilante, a man who called himself V, perpetrated acts upon the government that cost us greatly in manpower and in station. It was his handiwork when the Old Bailey came down and then again when Parliament was leveled." Atherton studied his glass contemplatively. "He wore a Guy Fawkes mask."

Stephen shuddered. "All the years I was in America, that is one thing I never missed."

Atherton nodded. "I remember you were always terrified of those masks. Evelyn liked them however." He looked at Stephen sharply. "Do you know what happened to your twin, Stephen?"

"He died." Stephen lowered his head. "In the fire at Larkshill."

"Did he, Stephen?" Atherton asked silkily.

"I was there, Father. Remember?"

"I remember you boys were like peas in a pod, always aware of one another."

Stephen shook his head. "That connection didn't survive the detainment camps, Father."

Atherton smiled cattily. "How do you feel now, Stephen?"

The younger man frowned, his eyes dark. He thought about the question for a long moment. "I feel tired, sir, and a little drunk. It has been a long time since I had brandy."

Atherton nodded. "It is one of my favourites," he mused. "It has always brought a smile to me, even in the darkest moments." He sipped the amber liquid. "But there are some things that need attending to, Stephen. I think we have delayed them long enough with these preliminaries."

He touched a bell pull. Stephen watched him in confusion. The door to the room opened and four men entered. They were all fair-sized men, their grim expressions made darker by the flat emotionless eyes that turned toward Stephen. The younger man got to his feet, alarmed. "What is this?" he demanded, staggering slightly.

"This is a jury of your peers, my lad. Fingermen Elite tried and true, which you have hardly proven to be." Atherton gestured to the men. "You know the penalty for dereliction of duty."

"But I did my…" Stephen's voice slurred suddenly. He tried to move but his body didn't obey him. "Father…"

Atherton shook his head. "Out of my hands, boy." He turned the brandy snifter in hie hands, smiling faintly. "Make no mistake: I drugged you so that my men would survive this little exercise, not spare you the pain of it. You will experience every moment of the beating you will receive, but you won't be able to defend yourself. I well remember what a fighter you were and I do not have Fingermen to waste in subduing you forcibly as I once might have done." Lifting the brandy to his lips, he savored a mouthful. "Take him away." As an afterthought, he added "Leave his face untouched."

The next few hours crawled by.

Stephen lay in silence as the men took turns beating his defenseless body with a variety of items. He lost count of each layer of bruising, the fists and feet that struck him, the rubber hoses and whatever else came to his assailants' hands. He retreated into his memories, reciting lines of plays he'd memorized, scenes from old movies and, of course, Evey. He remembered Evey and the times they had spent together. Remembering her body next to his, the aching loneliness lifting, dulled him to the pain he was experiencing. When it did not, he reminded himself that this was Justice's way of paying him back for torturing Evey. Every blow was a small portion of his debt for making her believe that she had been blackbagged and taken to Creedy.

He'd known how to make her believe that lie because it had been his work. He'd mingled with the crew that night because he'd known where she was and learned that the television persona was being hit over his disrespectful programme. He had not known the man had an extensive collection of homoerotica or other forbidden items. If he had, he might have tried harder to save them both but Evey was always the focus of his actions that night.

Putting her to the test in his fabricated cellblock and making her count her life in seconds, alternating the lighting to make the days pass at blinding speed, drugging her food and drink to alter her perceptions, all those were tricks he'd learned at the feet of his masters in the Fingermen. He was evil. He had become everything he hated in an attempt to make Evey reject what V had rejected, what he himself had not.

Someone caught under the arms, waking every nerve to painful life. He could not even groan, it hurt too much. Fingers laced through his hair and his head was roughly lifted from its lowered position. Atherton stared into his eyes. The old man looked flushed, as though he had been caught at a guilty pleasure. Stephen realized his father had watched the entire beating and enjoyed it.

"Hurts, doesn't it, boy?" Atherton asked. When Stephen groaned, he nodded. "And it will for a few days. I left you your face because no one needs to know you've been properly seen to, save the six of us. Your clothes will cover the worst of the damage from sight, but I expect that you will be feeling quite low for the next while." He smirked down at his son. "We will meet again in a fortnight and you will hand over the monies you are holding. When you do, we will have sufficient capital to wrest back control of England. England prevails." He let go and Stephen's head flopped forward onto his breast. "Cart him back to London. Put him out at the Crow and Cock and let Palmer sort him out."

By the time they reached the Crow and Cock, Stephen was able to move, although he was trembling and unsteady. He stood wavering on the sidewalk as the sedan drove away, thinking that even wearing clothes hurt. He was far from his flat and he wasn't going to make it. He stumbled around the corner before anyone realized he was in front of the pub. Bracing himself with one hand against a wall, he staggered to a public phone. It took forever to find the number he needed. He made the call, trying not to hyperventilate, and gritted his teeth waiting for it to ring.

The line connected, an annoyed voice rapping out "Hullo?"

Stephen licked his lips. "Mr. Finch, may I ask you to have someone pick me up for drunkenness in public?"

* * *

Eric came to the gaol, his expression dark as he requested passage to the holding cell. It was the same cell Stephen had been in earlier that day. This time, he was lying on the bench, trembling. Eric stood at the door to the cell. "Stephen?"

The figure shuddered. "Mr….Finch." His voice rasped, not at all the smooth speech Eric had come to expect. Eric's apprehension grew.

"Stephen, what has happened to you?"

Stephen's laugh was papery and breathless. "Justice," he said hoarsely.

Eric had the cell warden open the door then dismissed him as he went in to Stephen's side. There was none of the younger man's grace in the prostrate body. He lifted dull eyes to the policeman. Eric read the pain in the hazel depths, and he tried to understand. Hesitantly he laid a gentle hand on Stephen's shoulder.

The younger man jerked spasmodically, a groan escaping between his clenched teeth. Eric lifted away the edge of Stephen's collar, horror dawning in his eyes as he peered down at the revealed flesh.

"Good God, man, what happened?"


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: Thank you to every reviewer who takes a moment to issue comments. I adore them, they are fuel to my fire, and I get warm all over which prompts me to write more.- edited 09/11/07. The changes are coming along smoothly. ES

Disclaimer: I cannot think of a witty way to say I do not own these characters or the world in which they live. I am however manipulating them unmercifully. Have at!

* * *

**The Crawl of Days when We are Parted**

Evey Hammond was furious.

She stormed through her flat, tossing things about in high temper.

Standing just inside the door, Dominic wished that he hadn't had to bring her the news that Stephen Avery had been called away. She had already been scathing in her fury but the ominous silence that had fallen over the room was far more frightening to Dominic. Finally she stopped in the middle of throwing a book across the room and turned to look at the young policeman, a glint in her eye that made the man cringe as he remembered that look from the BTN all those months ago.

"Why would Stephen have called Eric?" she asked suspiciously.

"I suppose because he had Eric's telephone number." Dominic shrugged, trying for an air of nonchalance. "You aren't listed in the exchange, you know. He knows Eric has contact with you."

She mulled that over. "You know, Dominic, that's plausible." He visibly relaxed at her acceptance.

Evey's eyes narrowed at the change in him. "But whenever you lie to me, you always get as stiff as a board, as though I will break you in half. You just did it now and when you think I'm going to swallow whatever codswallop you dish out, you deflate like a punctured tyre." She frowned. "You want to try another one?"

Dominic decided he was beginning to hate his partner for putting him through this torture.

* * *

Eric was at Stephen's flat, watching the younger man struggling to keep his feet. Stephen was a massive bruise, every inch of him was in varying degrees of lividity, and Eric was very impressed with the fact he was standing upright. "Are you certain you should be moving around?" he asked warily.

"If I do nothing, they tighten up and hurt worse." Stephen was gritting his teeth and the words came out half-strangled. "Not like it doesn't hurt like hell already." He staggered toward the kitchen. "I appreciate your getting me home. I would never have been able to manage alone." He slowly filled a kettle with water. "Cuppa?"

"Yes, thanks," Eric said, not bothering to offer assistance as Stephen had made it plain that he needed to manage alone. "What is your plan now? Obviously the Fingermen don't trust you. What do you plan…"

"Oh, no, Mr. Finch," Stephen interrupted. "The Fingermen trust me as far as they always have. If they hadn't trusted me, I would already be moldering in my grave somewhere. No, I am alive, despite being highly uncomfortable, which means that the Fingermen will withhold their final judgment until I produce the monies I claim to have diverted."

"But five million pounds?" Eric looked flabbergasted. "Where the hell will you get that kind of flash? I know you live well but…"

Stephen grinned, triumph gleaming from his eyes. "I have a bit put aside." He fixed the tea tray and eyed it warily. "I may need your help in a moment, Mr. Finch, but do allow me to try and make it to the table." He picked up the tray carefully and walked slowly toward Eric. The makeshift table had been constructed from a hefty cardboard box and stood forlornly between two folding chairs, one of which Eric occupied. The younger man made it nearly to his seat before his strength gave out. Eric leaped to his feet and caught the tray as Stephen caught himself with a soft grunt of pain.

"You alright?"

"Ye-es." Stephen hissed, angry judging by his voice. Eric set the tray down and turned to him. Stephen's expression was a blend of fury and confusion. "I don't remember it taking this long to get over this," he growled in frustration. Eric eyed him.

"This has happened before?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"A few times. I wasn't always…obedient to Fingermen rules and regs. When I stepped out of line, Creedy used to take a great delight in having me punished with a beating. I learned to tolerate the pain, to think of other things. Whatever would make the pain stop. It never lasted though. A few hours or so later, I would be fine. Colorful but fine."

Eric pursed his lips. "Well, lad, you're twenty years older than that boy. While you are in good shape, you're still twenty years older and a bit less resilient than before." He shook his head. "I've never seen anyone who could take a beating like that and be walking the next day. I hate to think of what you were like fifteen years ago, much less twenty." He urged Stephen into a seat. "I know that you were V, Stephen, and I know that you were a hell of a thorn in the side of the Fingermen, but what are you planning?"

Stephen lifted his head. "I have a few ideas, some of which will need you in order to work. First of all, Evey cannot be involved. She brought down Parliament for V. She's a target and will be one until the last of Norsefire has been brought to justice."

"Given. I have no intention of telling her anything that you have told me in trust."

"Secondly, I need you to acquire an item of clothing worn by me from the British Museum. I want you to lead a search of the ruined tunnels, especially the stop before the Parliament point. You will need dogs."

"Why? What am I looking for?" Eric asked, frowning.

"When I escaped the train, I changed in that station. I left behind my bloodstained clothes. Your dogs will find them. I would like you to broadcast the fact, very vocally, that there is every chance to believe that V did not die in the blast, that he escaped, and is still at large." Eric shook his head in disbelief.

"Would you like me to paint the bulls-eye on your back now or later?"

Stephen chuckled and winced, putting a hand to his side. "There is a method to my madness." He leaned forward. "Come, Mr. Finch, how would you like to be the man to topple Norsefire once and for all?"

* * *

Evey stalked up to the apartment door, her jaw set with determination. It didn't help that she was shaking inside at her own temerity in approaching Stephen's new home. That in itself made her angry, not to mention the eagerness to see him again which made her stomach flutter with anticipation which made her angrier still. She hesitated at the door, torn between her need to find out why Stephen was avoiding her and a concern that something was wrong. The concern won out. She lifted her hand and rapped on the door.

After a moment, the door opened. Eric's face appeared. He was surprised for a moment then it disappeared under the inscrutable expression she called "police face".

"Hello, Evey."

"Hello, Eric." She lifted one eyebrow in disbelief. "I'm surprised to find you here." There was a loud thump from behind Eric, followed by a muttered curse. Evey turned her head slightly to project into the room behind Eric. "Stephen?"

"Evey?" Her lover's voice sounded odd. Evey pushed past Eric and into the room. She found the apartment bare, except for a pair of folding chairs and a large carton. She looked around to see Stephen sitting on the floor in a heap. She rushed to him, worry in her expressive eyes.

"Stephen, why are you on the floor?"

He lifted a hazy gaze to her then smiled angelically. "Evey, sweetheart." The words came out slurred and he couldn't seem to focus on her properly.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Nothin'," he declared casually, as though he always sat upon the floor.

"Stephen, are you drunk?" Her eyes narrowed. She leaned closer.

"He was picked up for public drunkenness last night," Eric said flatly. "I've only just brought him home."

Evey caught Stephen's face in her hands and held him still. She leaned close enough to kiss him and stopped. "You aren't drunk," she said definitively. "And you aren't pulling the wool over my eyes. What is wrong with you?"

Stephen hesitated. It was a brief second but enough. "Evey, I…" His voice betrayed him. It wobbled on the words and she shook her head.

"Don't lie to me, Stephen."

He was silent. His gaze sharpened, looking toward Eric for help but the policeman was also silent. "If I tell you, " he said sadly. "You'll do the right thing and leave. If I lie to you, the same is true." He shifted on the carpet. "Please, Evey, let me have a little time."

"Are you angry with me?" she whispered. "Because I came here?"

"No. I just need some time, Evey." He looked away. "Please, things are moving too fast…"

"You're lying to me," she said sharply. "Don't do that. I hate being lied to."

Eric came to stand beside her, and something in the way he stood there made Evey afraid. She looked up at him. "One of you, tell me what is going on." Fear swelled inside her as the silence lengthened. Finally her nerve broke and she pushed away from Stephen sharply, her hands against his chest.

Stephen grrunted, pain in the sound. Evey looked down perplexed. "What…"

Eric crouched down and offered Stephen his hand. "Come on, lad, let's get up." He helped Stephen to his feet, the younger man going gray faced at the exertion. Evey reached out and caught his shirt, fingers tangling in the loose fabric. Stephen caught her hand, mutely appealing her actions. She hesitated herself for a moment then lifted his shirt.

The bruising on his torso was severe. The bruises were fresh, huge, spreading over the taut abdomen and down into the waistband of the trousers he wore. Evey's eyes widened. She stared silently, realizing that the bruising continued around the torso and onto his back. She stared until Stephen lifted his shirt from her fingers and let it fall to cover the image of his pain.

"Stephen," she said very quietly, not looking up. "That is the work of someone who knows what they are doing. That's the kind of damage one sees in a camp or under blackbag." Her eyes rose to his face. "Do you want to tell me… No," she interrupted herself. "Are you going to tell me what happened to you?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I ran into some old friends who weren't all that happy to see me."

"Some friends, Stephen. Why did they beat you like this?" She was remembering the cell in the Shadow Gallery and her incarceration there. V had done it to make her strong and fearless. Why had someone beaten Stephen?

"Because they think I betrayed them." His voice was a mere whisper of sound. She tried to focus on his face, read his eyes, as he spoke but the Shadow Gallery loomed large in her thoughts.

"Who were they, Stephen?" Her voice was iron, resolute. "Tell me who did this to you."

"Evey, when I was young," he said desperately. "I was in the camps. It was brutal. Not a youth camp, but one for adults. There was only one way out of the camp and a day came that I took that road. Not a day goes by I don't regret…" She looked up at his face, her expression stony. "I gave in," he confessed. "I became one of Creedy's men."

For a long moment, there was silence. Evey was so very still that it seemed she had become stone. Then "You were a Finger?"

"Yes, Evey." His voice broke. "I became a Fingerman."

"A Finger," she repeated. She searched his face, her expression stunned.

"I took the road I was offered, just to escape the camps. I kept looking for a way out of the group. Fifteen years ago, I was able to escape from my superiors and I ran. I didn't come back until Parliament fell." He shrugged, the movement painful. "I was alright in the country but when I showed my face in London, I ran into someone who knew me from before. They took me somewhere and beat me for dereliction of duty." He looked down at Evey pleadingly. "I didn't want you to see me this way, to know this about me."

"Why have you kept this secret?" Evey demanded. She looked at Eric, seeing the expressionless mask on his face. "And you knew?" she accused.

"I suspected." Eric didn't let go of Stephen's arm. "On the night I found you together, he was so calm, methodical. Seemed military to me. I wasn't certain until last night."

"You were a Fingerman," she said hatefully, rounding on Stephen. "And I let you touch me." Staring up into the eyes of the man she'd fallen in love with, she saw him as someone else entirely. "You lied to me about who you were, Stephen. I thought you were a kind and generous man, but you were one of Creedy's men all along. A bastard, an abuser, a murderer… What happened to the people you bagged? Did any of them walk out of their cells? Were they taken behind the chemical shed and shot? How many did you kill?" Her voice was raw with venom and agony. "How much blood is on your hands, Stephen?"

His head snapped up, anger dilating his pupils so that his eyes were expressionless. "Oceans, Eve, my love." His voice had gone cold and hard to meet hers. "More than I care to remember, faces that I will never forget, voices that haunt me through the long dark nights." He pulled away from Eric, straightening proudly. "I'm spoiled goods, ruined for anything other than the Finger, right? Certainly not good enough for you, Ms. Hammond. You've never betrayed a trust or turned coat on a friend. Judge me all you want, Evey my sweet. It must be wonderful to have no regrets in your life."

"Regrets?" She tossed back her head, fury roiling in her like a hurricane. "I have regrets, Mr. Avery. I regret I ever saw your face." She spun on her heel and was gone, the door crashing shut behind her.

Stephen sucked in a deep breath and his head fell forward. "There is a face beneath this mask," he whispered. "But it is…"1 He fell silent.

Eric put out a hand to him. "Stephen, are you alright?"

Slowly Stephen turned to the policeman, his expression beyond weary. He looked at the older man for a long moment. "No, Mr. Finch, I am not, but thank you for asking." He gathered himself and turned toward his bedroom. "I am going to lie down for a while. Will you also be leaving?"

Eric shook his head. "I think I'll stay a while." He glanced around. "First peace I've had since you came to town."

Stephen tried to laugh and couldn't. "I will see you in a while then." He made his way slowly into the bedroom. Eric settled back into the folding chair and folded his arms across his chest. He could almost pretend he couldn't hear the grief on the other side of the door.

* * *

1) V4V


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Note: I love the feedback, people, and I hope that those of you who are silent and reading are enjoying the story. If not, tell me and maybe we can work it out. To those of you who approve and are vocal, thank you, we hope the tale is pleasant to your taste and satisfying.- edited 09/12/07. Hopefully this is an improvement on the original. A little longer, a little more detailed. Opinions gratefully accepted. ES

Disclaimers: I own nothing but my mind and the fantasies woven therein. V in his magnificence and Evey in her glory, Eric in his earnestness or Dominic in his inexperience are truly mine to toy with legally. I make no money from this venture, I am content with the accolades my readers toss at me through cyberspace.

* * *

**Vexation Vivified**

Twenty four hours after Evey slammed the flat's heavy door, Stephen slipped on his jacket and checked his reflection. The blond wig completely obscured his ebony hair and the clothes were a tad flamboyant for his usual tastes but it all worked. He had subtly altered his facial skin tones to a fairer hue and his brown eyes were hidden by blue contacts which would add to the confusion should someone see him and look him over. He really didn't expect it to happen. No one would recognize him in the effeminate costume.

He tried not to think of Evey but it was difficult to focus on anything but her parting words. He stared at his face, checking the cosmetics, and sighed. "I never wanted her to see me under the mask. That was the true monster." His eyes drifted closed and he willed himself to detach from his memory of that argument. It would only get in the way of what needed doing.

He left his flat and made his way to the bus stop, ignoring the residual aches and pains from the bruises on his body. He walked lightly, footsteps soundless amidst the press of the crowd. When his bus arrived, he mounted the steps and paid his fare before taking a seat. He sat down primly, crossing his legs and folding his hands upon his knee. He noticed a man looking him over and flicked the stranger a wicked, flirting glance. The fellow flushed a dull red, looking away again, and Stephen turned his attention to the scenery.

London, with all its color and activity, both attracted and repelled him, making him wonder if he would ever be able to live in the center of it comfortably. He saw his stop and gathered himself to leave the relative safety of the bus. Once on the sidewalk, he made for the next part of the journey.

He'd been to the museum before, of course, the last time the night he'd met Evey again In the daylight, the building was imposing. He followed the signs for the new exhibit and got in the queue for entrance. Looking around as he made his way through the halls, he took note of any cameras that were visible, as well as any other forms of security equipment.

The museum's precautions didn't look too imposing to him. He was all too familiar with casing locations for their weaknesses and strengths. While part of him maintained the air of femininity, he plotted his course of action, his mind racing ahead with its constant planning.

Finally he entered the new exhibit and confronted the grinning Guy Fawkes mask that graced the mannequin.

He stopped in his tracks and stared, letting himself absorb the black suited figure, the white mask, and the gleaming knives in their familiar leather belt. A keen sense of nostalgia swept through him, the sure and certain memory of how those lovely ladies felt in his hands, how exceptionally sharp they were and how he felt when he held them. He sighed longingly, lost in the cascade of memories...

Someone elbowed him. "Stop moonin' over him, ya poufter, and shift a bit so we can see."

He glanced at the woman beside him, her expression of distaste annoying him. "By all means," he said softly, his voice lilting. "One of us should be a lady, after all." He stepped neatly aside and wandered to another part of the display, ignoring the woman's gasp of outrage.

He moved before the jukebox and his eyes watered as he remembered dancing with Evey on the eve of the Fifth of November. She'd returned to him and given him the dance he'd asked for. He ached to hold her again, his heightened memory supplying him with pictures he truly didn't want to see. He remembered a song from the box that was appropriate, the words like acid on his heart. Had he ever played that one for Evey? He couldn't remember. The sad music played in his head, the words an echo of how he felt.

_I have to block out thoughts of you so I don't lose my head_

_They crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed_

_Dropping little reels of tape_

_to remind me that I'm alone_

_Playing movies in my head_

_that make a porno feel like home_

Stephen closed his eyes at the images his memory resurrected. Ah, Evey, you will never understand nor dare I give you the chance. The game I'm playing now is far more serious than the one before.

_There's a burning in my pride,_

_a nervous bleeding in my brain_

_An ounce of peace is all I want for you._

_Will you never call again?_

_And will you never say that you love me_

_just to put it in my face?_

_And will you never try to reach me?_

_It is I that wanted space_

He hummed softly to himself as he headed out the museum, satisfied he'd seen all he needed to see. Rather than catch the bus again, he hailed a cab and gave his address. Sitting back in the seat, he let his memory run the song farther.

_Hate me today_

_Hate me tomorrow_

_Hate me for all the things I didn't do for you_

_Hate me in ways_

_Yeah ways hard to swallow_

_Hate me so you can finally see what's good for you_

_I'm sober now for 3 whole months_

_it's one accomplishment that you helped me with_

_The one thing that always tore us apart_

_is the one thing I won't touch again_

_In a sick way I want to thank you_

_for holding my head up late at night_

_While I was busy waging wars on myself,_

_you were trying to stop the fight_

_You never doubted my warped opinions_

_on things like suicidal hate_

_You made me compliment myself_

_when it was way too hard to take_

_So I'll drive so fucking far away_

_that I never cross your mind_

_And do whatever it takes in your heart_

_to leave me behind_

The car came to a halt. "We're here, sir." The cabdriver took his payment, Stephen including a generous tip. He went back to his flat, still thinking of that damned song and its terrible regret-filled words.

_And with a sad heart_

_I say bye to you and wave_

_Kicking shadows on the street_

_for every mistake that I had made_

_And like a baby boy I never was a man_

_Until I saw your blue eyes cry_

_and I held your face in my hand_

_And then I fell down yelling "Make it go away!"_

_Just make a smile come back and shine_

_just like it used to be_

_And then she whispered_

_"How can you do this to me?"_

_Hate me today_

_Hate me tomorrow_

_Hate me for all the things_

_I didn't do for you_

_Hate me in ways_

_Yeah ways hard to swallow_

_Hate me so you can finally see what's good for you_

_For you_

_For you_

_For you_

In his memory, the song was still echoing when he entered the flat.

Methodically, he stripped off the clothes he was wearing and dispensed with the wig. Once he had the contacts out, he washed his face, removing every last trace of make up. Gathering the various parts of the costume together, he stored them carefully in a small case and put it out of the way under the bed. He returned to the bathroom and ran a hot bath, knowing the water would ease his aches and pains. Easing into the tub, he stretched out with a groan. Closing his eyes, he replayed the museum trip over in his memory, deciding what would be his next step.

Sometime later, the phone rang. He answered it, wrapped in a towel, his hair still wet. "Hello?"

"Stephen?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Finch."

There was a sigh. "It's done."

"Truly?" Stephen closed his eyes. "You found everything?"

"Yes."

"Well, then. We are one hurdle down."

"Heh." Eric's voice was light. "Only a million more to go."

"Five, actually." Stephen corrected absently. "Thank you, Mr. Finch. I will proceed from here. You may wish to warn Evey. It is liable to shock her badly."

"I'll take care of her myself, Stephen." Eric hesitated. "Do you want me to talk to her for you? Tell her anything?"

"No, Mr. Finch. She is better off knowing nothing." Stephen glanced out of his window, his mind far off. "When will you let the news slip?"

"That's already done. There has been no official word, of course, but the news people are already sniffing around."

"I need another day," Stephen said slowly. "Can I have that long?"

"This is enormous, Stephen. The press will persuade someone to talk and soon. They will offer enough money for this story that someone won't be able to resist."

"Alright. Then may I have until morning?" The younger man rubbed his stomach lightly. "Just until…say eleven in the morning?"

* * *

Evey answered her door and stared at her visitor, her eyes filling with rage. "I don't want to talk to you, Eric. I am far from happy with you right now." She went to slam the door against him but he caught it and forced his way inside. "What are you doing!" she demanded. "Get out!"

"No, Evey." Eric was grim, his expression telling her that something was wrong before he ever spoke. She flinched back.

"Is it… Has something happened to Stephen?"

"Nothing since his beating." Evey sagged in relief. "I didn't come about that, Evey. I came because something was discovered today, something you need to know before the press announces it on the telly." He reached out to her but she stepped back, watching him warily.

"You're starting to frighten me, Eric. What is it?"

"A sweep of the tube tunnels off the Shadow Gallery had unforeseen results, Evey. I think you should sit down." Eric tried to press her to sit on the sofa but she didn't move.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"Dogs were taken down into the tunnel today and they picked up a scent. One stop before the Parliament… We found a black costume, Evey, a Guy Fawkes mask."

She dismissed him with relief. "Someone left theirs at the abandoned station…"

"No, Evey." He stared down at her, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. Evey opened her mouth but he shook his head. "They were stained with blood, there were...bullet holes. We found the remnants of some first aid items, thread with blood on it, bandages,tape." His voice lowered. "The mask was the one on the man in the train car, Evey. I've seen it, remember?"

"This is ridiculous, Eric!" Evey shuddered, turning her head aside. "It's some sort of hoax."

"Those things were V's." Eric paused, passing his hand over his face. "It seems as though he escaped the train. The station was unlocked from the inside. There was blood on the platform, on the door, the wall and floor of the station. I've got experts working to see if we can type the blood…"

"What are you saying?" She looked at him as though he were utterly mad. "V died in my arms, Eric. I put him on that train." She looked slapped; the shock on her face was terrible. "He was dead, he blew with Parliament…"

"Evey, there is every possibility that he did not." Eric tried to soften the blow. "It appears that he escaped the train, altered his appearance, and left in the crowd of spectators."

She said nothing, her eyes staring into space, moving rapidly as if searching the air for something. "All those masks, all those capes…" she whispered. "He wanted to die with the old world; he wanted me to send him…" Her knees buckled, taking her to the ground in a heap. "Oh, God, Eric, I put him on that train. I sent him to die!" Tears spilled over her cheeks, her mouth open in a silent cry. She gasped for breath, straining to get air. Eric knelt beside her, offering her support.

"Breathe, Evey," he coaxed. "Come on, breathe."

She struggled against the suffocation of the asthma, the childhood affliction that surfaced only when she was overwrought. "But if...If he lived," she panted. "Where...is he? Why hasn't he contacted me? He said. He said." She lifted her hands, clenching her fingers in her tousled hair. "Why hasn't he come to me? Sent me a message? Something, anything! He would have come to me, Eric. He said he loved me!" she wailed.

Eric patted her shoulder, feeling out of his depth. "I don't know, Evey."

A rap at the door interrupted them. Eric looked at Evey, who shook her head. He got up and answered the knock. A young man stood there with a package. "Delivery for E. Hammond. That you?" he asked, glancing at his delivery slip.

Eric shook his head. He signed for the box and carried it to Evey. She looked at it in confusion. With trembling fingers, she opened the box. One look at the contents and she keened in grief, bending over the gift, trembling. Eric watched her lift out a bouquet of flowers, roses, their deep crimson petals exuding a sweet fragrance. Evey cradled them, weeping.

"Scarlet Carsons," she cried. "Is there a card?" Frantically she searched the flowers. Eric found the little card and offered it to her. She tore open the envelope, her eyes wide.

The little card read "It is my very good honor to meet you….Again." There was a flourish at the bottom, a sharp little letter. V.

Evey stared at it, her face turning as white as paper. "He is alive," she breathed softly. "No one could know that phrase but him. He's alive." She burst into tears again, rocking back and forth on the floor, Eric kneeling beside her silently. "Oh, my God," she said again. "He's alive and I thought all this time he… I was with Stephen. He'll kill Stephen, Eric. You have to protect him!"

"Protect V?"

"No, Stephen. V will see him as Mondego; he'll challenge Stephen for me… Oh," and she shook her head. "Trust me, I lived with him, Eric. He'll see Stephen as having betrayed him by touching me. V lives by his honor." She cast about frantically. "We have to warn Stephen."

"Why? He's a Fingerman, Evey, your V's personal vendetta. Of course V will go after him." Eric shook his head. "V wouldn't know about Stephen, anyway."

She shook her head, cradling the flowers. "He'll know." She brushed the petals with her cheek, leaving behind tears on the crimson that shimmered like jewels. "He'll know."

* * *

Stephen checked his watch. He'd managed to watch the coming and going of the guards and knew the length of time between sweeps. With his little stiletto, he forced open the cupboard he'd wedged himself into. In a few minutes, the whole power grid would go down and he would have about ten minutes to do what he needed to. He checked his watch again, thinking the little explosive device would be detonating soon, and he held himself ready.

The faint light he could see from the nighttime illumination suddenly cut off and he eased out of his cubby. Long legs carried him to the new exhibit and he forced open the back of the cabinet with the mannequin. He already wore the thin black cowl over his head, prepared to strip the mask and wig off the mannequin and put them on himself. Reaching around the mock V, he unbuckled the knives and transferred them to his own body. They went on easily, his fingers making short work of the fastenings. He felt as though he was being born anew, so pleased at their fit and feel was he. He unsheathed two, twirling them in his hands, delighted he'd not lost the trick of handling them. He chuckled, resheathing them. He lifted the great cloak from the figure's shoulders and swept it over his own before snatching the mask off the plaster head and placing it over the cowl. The wig followed, a well-remembered weight, a long lost friend.

For a moment he stood and gloated in the reclamation of his belongings, head tilted forward, the long black hair of the wig brushing his shoulders, his face once more armored by the mask. He was V again. The knowledge encased him in strength, in relief, in security, and he fought the urge to laugh in sheer pleasure at the familiarity of it.

The lights came on again.

Stephen lifted his head slowly, eyes opening as he turned his masked face toward the camera he knew hung in the corner of the room. Let them see, let them know V walks again. He waited a moment then snatched up his hat and seated it upon his head. With a long and easy stride, he walked from the room.

When he encountered a guard, he laid his hands on his knives in silent warning. The guard lifted his hands in surrender immediately, his face filled with awe. "You're V!" he whispered. Stephen nodded silently. "We all thought you'd died."

"Something was dead in each of us, and what was dead was Hope,"1 Stephen said in his brother's deeper voice.

"You came back, Mr. V." The guard backed away. "I won't stop you. Hell, I won't even call the police."

"Kind of you." Stephen inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you…Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."2 He moved past the guard and slipped away.

* * *

Evey still sat with the flowers in her lap, her face pale with shock. She was alone, Eric having finally left. The little card clutched in her fingers was crumpled slightly, but the inscription was still clearly legible. She stared at it numbly.

V was alive.

The card, the Carsons proved it. Eric's story had been the preface to this nightmare, she hadn't truly thought it possible. She held the proof in her hands.

She couldn't think. Her mind kept turning to Stephen and V. If they met, if V learned she had turned to Stephen in her loneliness, he would be terribly offended. She loved him, she did. Nothing could compare to V, he shone in her memory with the glory of a hero. His strength and courage, his commitment to his cause despite the cost, made her remember him with devotion. Even the torture she'd suffered at his hands, she'd forgiven him. He'd been her gaoler, her teacher, her friend, her family for the better part of a year. Her time with him was a confusing ménage of things, some very good, some very bad.

She thought of Stephen, his laughing brown eyes that turned green when he made love to her, his black hair that curled so endearingly when she fluffed it. She thought of the terrible truth that he'd been a Fingerman, that he'd become the very thing that he'd suffered under. Not like V, who had taken the pain and transformed it into strength, using his strength to shatter the hold of his captors. V would see him as a traitor to everyone who died in the camps, wouldn't he? The same way she'd seen Stephen, the way that V had taught her to think..

V would kill him.

She was sure of it. I hate Stephen, she thought distantly but the words rang false.

She didn't hate Stephen at all; she loved him, loved the man who had worshipped her body with such gentleness, who made her laugh even when she was angry, who'd been as afraid to show her his real face as V had been.

The comparison caught her short.

Was she always going to fall into this trap? Dietrich, God rest him, had hidden his sexual preferences from her, V had hidden his face behind the mask, and Stephen had hidden his sordid past. All of them had their reasons for secrecy but she wondered now in the stillness of her flat.

Was it her?

Was she so intolerant of things that were unpleasant that people felt they needed to walk around her on eggshells? She thought of what Stephen had said during their row.

"You've never betrayed a trust or turned coat on a friend. Judge me all you want, Evey my sweet. It must be wonderful to have no regrets in your life."

She had regrets aplenty. She'd betrayed V to the Bishop, hadn't she? She'd left V after the torture he'd given her, never looking back. She closed her eyes, appalled that she was crying again. She regretted throwing her spiteful words at Stephen and walking out on him too.

Oh, God, how was she ever going to make things right?

* * *

1 Oscar Wilde, the Ballad of Reading Gaol

2 Holy Bible, John 14:27


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Note: Well, so far, I am enjoying myself immensely. From the reviews some of you leave, I must believe the same is true. For you silent ones, I hope it is true also. This is the longest piece of work I've ever done, with the exception of a book I have been working on for years. You make me believe that I might actually one day be a novelist whose work appeals to others. Thank you. -edited 09/12/07. This was a tough chapter to edit. ES

Disclaimers: I must issue an apology to the masters of the V-verse. I apparently implied that I did own the characters I have purloined for my nefarious scribblage. Obviously the nutter half of me was in charge of the keyboard as I own nothing of these characters and I am forcing them to do my bidding through the use of mass hypnosis. That said, I apologize for not citing the song I used, Hate Me by the illustrious Blue October. If you haven't heard this song, kiddies, I heartily recommend them to you. The album "Foiled" is a wondrous thing. Abasing myself, I cease with the stuff that is boring and yet necessary to offer you our latest chapter.

* * *

**Gemini**

Evey spent a restless night, her dreams a muddled mass of memory and mystery, her waking hours spent pacing the confines of her apartment. Eric Finch had ordered her security detail to be increased, a depressing turn of events, but she found she could not blame him given the circumstances.

V was alive.

The Scarlet Carsons were in a vase by her bed, their luxuriant blooms filling her small bedroom with their intoxicating scent. Evey could close her eyes and believe that she was back in the Shadow Gallery. The silence reminded her of times when V had gone out about his business and she was sitting at home waiting for him. She kept expecting him to show up, to turn a corner and find him in silken shirt and vest, practicing his fencing.

To think of him alive and well…She was stunned, she was breathless, she was afraid.

Intruding into her thoughts was Stephen. Stephen with his laughter and his love. She hadn't known him very long, July 25th was the night they'd met and here it was the first week of September. She blushed to think of how forward she had been with him, rather pushy actually, but he'd taken it in stride. When he'd come to London, he must have known what a danger he was in, but he'd come to be near her as she certainly couldn't have gone to him with her responsibilities.

She wondered why he had chosen the Fingermen over death, why he'd chosen to become a killer when it was obvious he wasn't a monster. How could he have followed Creedy and those thugs? He said he'd been in adult detention facility and she knew from what records remained that adult facilities were among the worst. She had researched Larkhill after the Fifth of November and her research had been filled with horrible acts and terrible truths. V had conquered his pain to be a force for good; Stephen had turned to the evil that tormented him to find relief. She could understand his desperation, she thought, but V would not and Stephen would be one of his enemies. She rubbed her aching head, fingers seeking out the pain and trying to erase it, but one thought came clearly to her.

She had to warn Stephen. He needed out of London at once before V found him.

* * *

Stephen honed the blades from his blade belt, fingers gentle and careful with the keen edges. He liked the feel of the whetstone grinding away the dullness and making his beauties their finest. He needed a place to work with the knives, someplace private and quiet, where no one would know what he was doing.

He glanced at the calendar on the wall, the days marked off carefully in pen. He had 10 days left to pull off a miracle. Plenty of time. He smiled to himself. There were fifteen million pounds set aside in an account he'd created and the money was not the sum total of what he had taken over the years. He had money in lots of places. No, the trick would be getting Atherton Avery to come out of hiding long enough to put his head on the block. He preferred that Eric take Atherton as there was a necessity for the provisional government to capture and prosecute the members of the fascist party. If Eric could not, then V would have to do the deed. Atherton needed to pay for his evil.

A knock came at the door and Stephen's head snapped up in shock. He expected no one. Hurriedly he concealed his knives and supplies before hiding them in a cabinet in the kitchen. Straightening his clothes, he went to the door. A glimpse through the peephole deepened his shock. He made himself answer the door.

"Hello, Evey."

She looked up at the sound of the door opening and her eyes travelled over him searchingly. She blushed, her expression hardening despite her obvious discomfort. She glanced behind her to her bodyguard then back up at Stephen. "I'll understand if you say no," she said softly. "But may I come in?"

He stepped back. "Certainly, Ms. Hammond."

She dismissed the guard with a wave and came over the threshold. Glancing around, she was surprised to find the apartment fully furnished in a very classic style. A piano graced one wall, sheet music on the rack, and a large bookcase full of books, a sofa and chair combination in hunter green, the wooden coffee table and end pieces were cherry. It seemed as though Stephen had been living there for a long time. She half-smiled. "What did you do with the folding chairs and the carton?"

He waved a careless hand. "I found it didn't fit my lifestyle," he said lightly. "Refugee life didn't really suit me."

"Refugee?" She turned toward him, surprised at the slight sting of bitterness in his voice. "I somehow doubt you've ever been a refugee, Stephen."

"Not in the classical sense, perhaps." He studied her. "I can't say I ever expected to see you here again. Come to strike a few more blows, Ms. Hammond, or is there something I can do for you?"

"I didn't come to fight with you," she said in a low voice.

"Then why did you come here? You were fairly clear as to where I fit in your world." He moved away from her, his attention on straightening a stack of newsprint on the table. Evey saw the headlines and her heart fell.

"You've seen the paper?" she asked unnecessarily. He turned a disbelieving look toward her. She made a vague gesture. "Of course you have," she said. "Look, Stephen, you have to leave London. If V is alive, and the papers don't know the half of it, then you are in grave danger. V targets Fingermen, you'll be on his list."

Stephen shook his head. "I cannot leave London."

"You must. You said the Fingermen are after you too, you'll be in danger from both sides." She moved closer to him, pleading. "Go back to Gallowsmere, Stephen. Ride out the storm."

"I cannot." He pulled away from her, the slight tremor of his hands her only indication that he was disturbed by her presence.

"Why not?"

He shook his head. "There are a number of reasons," he said. "Suffice it to say that the Fingermen are well aware that I am alive and in London. I am already close to being killed and, if I run again, they will send a squad after me immediately." He made an annoyed sound. "I knew the risk when I came back to London. It is unimportant, really."

She stepped closer still. "Why did you come then? Why risk your life?" she asked softly. He looked at her and his eyes were bright and hard with anger.

"Because I thought I found something…" He bit back the rest of his retort. "Really, Ms. Hammond, shouldn't you be rejoicing? V is not dead. Your terrorist is still alive and is in London. You'll get your happily ever after, won't you?" He kept slipping away from her, keeping a distance, but she could see that he was holding himself in check. The knowledge that she affected him moved her as his bitterness could not.

"I don't know that V is capable of having a happily ever after," she whispered. Her eyes stung with tears. "Stephen, I may be angry with you, I know I hurt you the other night, but I don't want you to die. V will kill you." She pursued him around the coffee table and caught his arm. "Eric can arrange some sort of protection for you from both the Fingermen and V." His arm trembled under her hand, the muscles taut with restraint. She pulled herself closer still. "You'd be safe, Stephen."

"No, Evey, I won't be. I'm not afraid of the Fingermen; I know them well enough to know where I stand. V? Well, V may be the death of me, but what of it? Plenty of Fingermen have taken that road." He turned his face away from her, as though he could not bear to see her.

"I have forgiven V a great many things," she whispered to him. "But I don't think I could forgive him taking your life." She sighed. "Look at me, Stephen," she begged. "Please."

He did as she asked and she was looking up into his eyes, seeing the love and pain at war in their green depths. He stared at her, drinking in her face like it was the source of his life. She was appalled by the desperate need that shone in his face, felt her belly tighten in reaction to it. She leaned up to his face, her lips grazing his. He held very still but a shudder ran through him. She kissed him again, pressing her mouth to his in a silent plea.

Suddenly he wrapped his arms around her, deepening the kiss, bending her backwards over his arm. He kissed her as though it were his last request, his only sustenance, and Evey kissed him back just as hard.

He tasted like happiness and grief and she realized she was crying again, her tears mingling with the kiss. She hated that the Fingermen had touched him, but he was an honorable man who had done something dishonorable and tried to live with the consequences. She couldn't judge him, she hadn't walked in his shoes, and she couldn't deny that she felt love for him. She clung to him, her arms wrapping around him, and he cradled her with desperation.

He lifted his head, his eyes bright. "You'll be the one who kills me, Evey," he whispered. "You already took my heart. There's nothing left of me for anyone else."

She gasped for air, her fingers in his hair. "I don't want anyone else to have you."

He tutted. "Greedy, are we?" For a moment, the teasing tone in his voice made her weak in the knees then he righted her and stepped away again. "I can't do this, Evey," he said regretfully. "I can't play games about this."

She stared after him. "I'm not playing games, Stephen," she retorted. "I've never lied to you about who I am, about what I want."

He nodded. "True enough but I have lied, Evey, and I'm still lying." He laughed bitterly. "I don't know if I am even certain of the truth anymore."

They got no farther.

Another knock on the door interrupted them. Stephen stiffened, his eyes switching to the door as he frowned. "I wasn't expecting anyone," he said softly. "Two unexpected guests in one day is unusual." He slipped across the room and peered through the peephole. A moment later, he spun and caught Evey's arm, clamping a hand across her mouth.

"Quiet," he whispered. "Please, Evey, please be silent." He shoved her ahead of him into the bedroom. Her eyes were wide with fear. "It's Fingermen. They've never come here before. I'll try to get rid of them quickly." He let her go, closing the door partway behind him. When the knock came again, she heard his voice change, becoming rough and belligerent.

"What the fuck do you want?" He sounded like a punk, she thought, hiding behind the door.

"Hullo, Stevie." The newcomer sounded smug. "Did we interrupt somethin'?"

"Matter of fact, you did, Palmer." Stephen growled.

"Tough, my lad. I come on official business." The voice sounded like it was moving around the living room of the flat. "We alone?"

"You see anyone else?" Stephen sounded annoyed. "Spit it out, Palmer. What do you want?"

"Nice digs, Stevie, my lad. Like your da, you fell on your feet, didn't ya?"

Stephen's voice sharpened, turning angry. "You want a tour of the flat? Get a real estate broker. Tell me what you want and get out." He moved away, his voice a little distant. "I have other things to do than play games with you."

"Watch yer mouth, boy. I'm still your shephed..."

"Then tell me something I need to know, Palmer. I have my orders and I am following them. You have any special instructions, then give them and go." Stephen slammed a cupboard door. "I've other appointments today."

"Well, lad, your da sent a message that you needed to be watched." Palmer's voice was arrogant. "You been under Fingerman observation for the past few days, you know."

"So?"

"So we know you ain't alone, Stevie. Where'd you put the little slag?"

Evey pressed a hand to her mouth to stop herself from gasping at the insult. Stephen made a sharp sound as the bedroom door was slammed open. The wood struck Evey with force, knocking her back halfway to the bed. She looked up with wide frightened eyes at the big man standing over her. He grinned, his scarred face twisting horribly as he reached down and grabbed her wrist, then dragged her back into the living room. Evey struggled but she was no match for the big man's strength. She yelped as his hands ground the light bones together painfully.

"Let her go." Stephen's tone of voice dropped into deadly threat. Evey had the vague impression that he was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter.

Palmer chuckled, not looking up from his captive.

"Well, well, well, Stevie," he said slowly. "This ain't just any slag. You're shagging Evey Hammond!" He chuckled again. "I guess you got the job done, didn't ya?" He reached up with his free hand to finger the scar on his face. "I guess that pretty face of yours brought the bitch to heel, after all. Was she worth it? She say anything about that bastard in the mask?"

"Get your hands off her." Stephen's voice was even more ominous. Palmer shook his head.

"I don't think so, Stevie, my lad." He eased a gun out of his waistband, cocking the hammer back. "If you've had her, there's no call to keep her. There's a price on her head, enough to keep a man in luxury."

"Palmer," Stephen said sharply. "Stop."

"I'll share with it with you, Stevie. You shagged her and bagged her. I'll just cap her off and we'll drop her body in front of Inspector Finch's office along with her bully boys." Palmer chuckled. "The provisionals will be fucked without their little figurehead, won't they?"

Evey stared up at the pistol pointed at her head, thinking that she really didn't want to die today but here it was. She wasn't afraid to die, but she regretted that she hadn't had enough time with Stephen, that the rift between them was still gaping wide open, full of pain and sorrow.

From the corner of her eye, she had the impression that Stephen stooped and rose again smoothly. There came a whistling sound and something shining struck Palmer in the side of the neck. He staggered, the gun dropping from his fingers, his grip on her wrist falling away, his eyes widening with the sudden realization that he was dying, was dead already. He toppled away from Evey and she scrambled away from him, panicked.

As she stared at the dead man, his body fallen against the wall as though he'd sat down suddenly, she noticed the thing jutting from his neck was a knife hilt. She stared at the hilt, knowing it as well as she knew her own face in a mirror. In shock, she looked for Stephen, seeing him coming toward her, his walk purposeful.

Suddenly, over his casually dressed form, she saw the black clothing V preferred and she bit back a howl of recognition. He stooped beside her, ignoring the dead man, his eyes searching her face. She stared back at him, her heart hammering in her chest, disbelief at war with the facts before her. "Are you hurt, Evey?" he asked softly as one hand reached out to touch her but didn't complete its journey.

"You're V." She gasped for air. "You're V."

"No," he said slowly. "And yes." He glanced toward Palmer. "It's a long story, Evey, and not a pretty one."

She caught his hand and lifted it to her wide eyes, examing the smooth skin frantically. "You were burned!" she protested. "I saw your hands."

He glanced at the small fingers gripping his and sighed. "You saw what I needed you to see, Evey. I meant for you to have a life after the Fifth of November and you could not have that with the scarred and deformed monster you thought V was. I never meant to come back into your life and wreak such havoc in it."

Her eyes narrowed as her mind raced over the past weeks. "You knew who I was when we first met," she whispered. "You let me think you were someone else."

He hung his head. "I should have walked away," he admitted. "But I couldn't. I wasn't strong enough to leave you that night."

"Were you laughing at me when I came to warn you against…yourself? Was it all a joke to you?" Fear was turning rapidly to fury. "Those scars… They were from the Fifth?" She started to shake. "I made love to you, and you were playing me the fool!"

He seized her then, lifting her from the floor as he rose and shaking her sharply. "I was the fool, Evey!" he growled. "All those months in the Gallery, all that time with you, knowing I was playing a game I would most likely die of, looking at you, loving you and knowing I could never have you. I walked through hell, Evey, I spent every moment in a torment because you were in my power and I could not touch you." He stared at her as though he would memorize her face. "When you left me in the Gallery, I felt my last bit of humanity leave with you. I was already dead. Knowing I had to play my part kept me moving, kept me alive, but there was nothing left for me. When you came back, I had to hold to the plans I had spent years setting in motion. I martyred V and vanished into the night. No happy endings for me, I thought, then, one day, there you were. My world came back into colour, my heart revived. You were my salvation, Evey, I could be alive again with you in my arms." He paused, staring down at her as the anger bled out of him. "You were never a fool, Evey. I swear before God that I never felt you were a fool."

She closed her eyes and her hands ran over his arms, across his chest, like a blind woman seeking to read his body with her hands. He could feel her heart pounding so hard that she shook with every beat. When her eyes opened, she looked up at his face quizzically. "How did I never realize it?" she whispered. "It really is you!"

"Why would you have suspected?" he asked simply. "You thought I died in the train."

"You talk differently, but I can hear V's voice in yours." She shook her head. "I want this to be true," she said. "But it's…"

"Did you like the Scarlet Carsons?" The question was soft. "I didn't want to frighten you and I thought that you would understand why I sent them." He released her, lifting one hand to cup the side of her face. "I was always glad that you kept the details of your time with V private. No one would have understood how…complicated that time was or how much of me you knew." He stroked her carefully, his eyes warm with adoration. "Oh, Evey, I wanted you then. I loved you and I hoped...It took all my strength to leave you that night after you kissed me." He fell silent, his eyes searching hers.

She was silent too for a long moment. "I kissed a mask," she reminded him. "Not you." Her voice was low and accusing. "You left me standing beside that damned train. You had to have your revenge."

"I am sorry, love. I had to go."

"I grieved for you."

"I did not want that, Evey. I wanted you to live free and happy under the sun."

"I was never free of the Gallery, of you. I carried you both inside me. I mourned because I could not have you." Her fingers traced his jaw, skimmed across his chin, then rested lightly on his mouth. "I don't care what name you want, I love you. For a brilliant terrorist," she mused. "You're a stupid bastard. You should have kissed me already."

He lowered his mouth to hers and she, who thought she knew exactly how this man's mouth worked, was amazed at the passion that he poured into the caress. She melted against him, feeling the proof of his desire against her belly, and gloated in it. When he lifted his head, they were both breathless. She clung to him, her knees having gone weak. "Bloody hell," she whispered. He chuckled, tucking her head under his chin and holding her close.

"As much as I am enjoying this," he said practically. "We will need to move out of here quickly." He glanced down at the dead man. "Palmer didn't come alone, and he's already done away with your security detail. I need to get you somewhere safe, Evey my love."

"I can't be any safer than with you."

"Perhaps not, but here is dangerous. Go back into the bedroom and let me clean up a bit. When I am done, we will leave the flat and get you back into Mr. Finch's care." He smiled at her, love in his eyes. "Give me a few minutes, Evey."

She nodded then and moved back into the bedroom, skirting the dead man. Stephen turned to his work, his heart light despite the gory job.

Evey still loved him.


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: Hello, people. Are you liking the tale so far? This is a little catching up, making things clear, and hopefully not too dull. Thank you for the reviews. I deeply appreciate every one and they make me very happy indeed. Oh, and have any of you seen the V-based fan vids at you-tube-dot-com. Check them out, some are awesome. For fans of VEV, I recommend "Bittersweet" by LadyVendettaAngel. Chills. Goosebumps. Melting.- edited 09/13/07. In my original notes, I tried to put a URL which fanfiction does not allow. I have reinserted it, typed in such a way that the information is available after all. Happy viewing. ES

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters I play with, I make no money from them, I merely wanted more story than the movie gave me.

* * *

**Running and Remembering**

Stephen returned to Evey a few minutes later, his knife belt in hand, the blades in their proper sheaths. Evey looked at him curiously. "What did you do with that man?"

"I installed him in the bathroom," he said practically. "There didn't seem a more expedient place." He hid the belt in a leather satchel, gathering the rest of his belongings quickly. Evey saw the cloak and mask as he hid them within and she realized this was really happening. It was true.

Stephen was V.

He turned to her and studied her for a moment. "Evey, we can't go out the front door, you know. There will be other Fingermen waiting. If I am being watched, then they know we are together. Palmer knew when he got here."

"You have another way out." It wasn't a question. She got to her feet and nodded. "I'll go wherever you tell me to, Stephen." He nodded and began to turn away but her hand caught his arm. "When we're safe, Stephen, you will tell me everything."

He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. "Everything. I promise you."

He led her into the other bedroom and opened the window. A rooftop spread out before them, Stephen looked around carefully before deciding it was safe. He tossed his satchel ahead of them and climbed over the sill. A small jump and he was across the yard wide gap between the buildings. He turned back for Evey, holding out his hands. "Come on, love."

She joined him, relief making her giddy. Stephen caught up his satchel and they crossed the rooftops, running lightly. Evey realized he was pacing himself to make it easier on her and she marveled at his attention to her in the face of being hunted.

They came to a stop several blocks from the flat and Stephen hesitated, glancing around. "We can get to the ground from here," he said softly. "We should be far enough away from anyone watching the flat to escape into the street unnoticed." She nodded breathlessly. He smiled at her. "Only a little farther, Evey. I'll see you safely home."

They descended a rusty fire escape and Stephen dropped the last few yards into the empty alleyway. He turned his face toward her, opening his arms, and she let go, knowing he would not let her fall. He caught her in his arms, setting her down reluctantly. She lifted her mouth to his, taking a kiss as payment for her trust. He kissed her willingly, leaning into her, one hand braced on the wall behind her, the other wrapped around her waist to keep her from the grime that hung there. Evey finally pulled back, dazed.

Stephen's smile was wicked. "Don't toy with me, woman," he whispered. "I'm like a crazy person." The words from the past brought a startled laugh from her lips.

"Oh, God," she giggled. "I'd forgotten that I'd asked you that."

"It was a logical question at the time," his smile reassured her. "I'm sure it all felt very surreal to you."

"A bit like now," she said softly. "We left a dead man in your bathroom."

"Well, I hadn't room in the refrigerator." The implication was ludicrous. "He'll keep for the moment, Evey, until I speak to Mr. Finch. After that, we'll get it sorted out."

"You saved my life. You weren't going to tell me until that man forced your hand." He heard the faint accusation in her voice and his eyes turned serious.

"I would have confessed to being V to save you." He meant it. "Nothing is more important to me than your safety, Evey. Nothing. Not anymore." He shouldered his satchel and drew her arm around him. "Come on, we've a ways to go and I don't wish to get caught out in the open with no place to run. Since we cannot go to the Shadow Gallery, we will have to go to your flat."

It was another two hours before they were in Evey's kitchen, a pot of tea steaming on the table between them. Finch had been called and was taking care of his fallen men and Palmer's body. Stephen poured out the tea, nudging the biscuits toward Evey. She took her cup in both hands and leaned back in her seat, her eyes earnestly studying her lover's face. "Tell me," she said gently. "Tell me what happened to you to make you… you."

He picked up his own cup, frowning. "It's not a nice story," he warned her sadly. "It's really quite unhappy."

She shook her head. "Stephen," she said softly. "Don't. Don't retreat behind the mask again. I thought about it a lot last night. I judged you by the experiences I'd had. I wasn't willing to listen to you. Now I want to. I want to hear what you did and why. I won't run away from you again."

Stephen sighed. He sipped his tea and set the cup down again.

"It began when the Norsefire party was just beginning to flex its political muscle. My father, a man of letters, became active in the party against my mother's wishes. He left Gallowsmere and moved to London. I don't think he divorced my mother, she never said, but he never came home again. There were just the three of us then, Mother and Evelyn and me, living in Gallowsmere. Mother read books for a living as a proofreader and Evelyn and I were getting ready to go to university. V wanted to be a professor of literature and I wasn't quite as settled. I thought perhaps a solicitor or a barrister."

"The law?"

He smiled faintly. "I wanted to enforce the law, rather than let the Norsefire party run everything. Perhaps I wanted to hurt my father, I don't know." He tipped back his head and lost himself in the retelling of it, spinning the story for Evey to understand.

* * *

_The night was warm, unseasonably warm, and Stephen lay in his bed, drowsing as the breeze drifted across his skin gently. The door to his room creaked open and the bed shifted as his brother joined him on the big mattress. Silently they lay back to back, soaking in the presence of their twin. Finally, V spoke softly._

_"Viv, I keep having the feeling…"_

_"That something is coming?" Stephen finished the sentence for him. In the darkness, V shifted uneasily._

_"Yes. I'm afraid for Mother."_

_"What can we do?" Stephen roused a little. "Surely Mother's safe here?"_

_"I don't think anyone is safe," V sighed. "I've been reading the papers, seeing what liberties the government is taking. They've got a new branch of secret police called Fingermen, and there are rumours of people disappearing in the dead of night." He shuddered. "I've read that these people are being sent to detainment centers although the government denies it."_

_Stephen turned his head toward his brother. "You didn't read that in the news," he accused. "Are you reading subversive literature?"_

_"I read the last book Mother proofed. It was compelling." V sighed again. "We are becoming a Fascist state, Viv, and there is no freedom in Fascism, only lies and deceptions. We've forgotten the dangers of one party with no one speaking out or with a counter view. The whole government is skewed sideways. Remember the priest hole? The secret passage? History is repeating itself before our eyes."_

_"Father is in government, V. Surely that will protect Mother." Stephen lay with his back against his brother's and blinked in the dark. "Things will change back to the way they were before at the next election. You'll see."_

_V shifted closer. "They've suspended the elections until there is a certain level of social equality. We are in the eye of the storm, Viv. I feel it coming." He shuddered. "We cannot give in to them, Viv. If we do, they'll own us body and soul."_

_Stephen shuddered too, closing his eyes. "I hope you're wrong." He was surrounded by his brother's warmth. "Whatever happens, we have each other."_

_V didn't answer. They fell asleep at nearly the same moment, the bond between them strong._

_It was only a handful of nights later that there was a crash at the door and V and Stephen were roused from a sound sleep by men in black. They were herded into the living room as their mother was dragged downstairs from her bedroom, clad only in her nightgown and a black bag over her head. She was screaming, the sound only barely muffled by the heavy cloth concealing her face. V and Stephen tried to go to her but were forced back by the men around them. A man in a suit appeared in the door, his narrow eyes moving over Stephen and V unpleasantly._

_"You're the twins," he said unnecessarily. "Your father sends a message to you. Either join the Fingermen as you ought to or spend your lives in the detainment facilities." He chuckled evilly. "You'll get no preferential treatment either way."_

_V lifted his head, his eyes full of hatred. "I am recusant." He made the word proud and sharp. "I will not become a member of the enforcers of the fascist party. I am recusant."_

_Stephen remembered the word. It was the name of the Catholics who'd stood against the tyranny of Henry the 8th and later Elizabeth the 1st. It meant a nonconformist as well. He echoed his brother. "I am recusant. I reject your offer. I am recusant."_

_Creedy hadn't known the word but their refusal infuriated him. "Well, then, my fine lads. It's detainment for you and much joy of it I wish you." He issued commands to his men and the boys were bagged and bound then carried after their mother._

_Stephen had woken in a barren cell, dressed in a robe that barely covered him to the thigh. The first thing he was aware of was V's distance. He felt his brother was nearby but they'd never been forced apart in their whole lives. Stephen circled his cell, and then settled for pounding on the cell door and shouting for his brother. The guards soon tired of his cries and they took him down to another area and beat him._

_That set the tone for much of his incarceration._

_Daily beatings, food of such low quality that even the rat that visited his cell wouldn't touch it and the terrible isolation from his brother made up his days. He learned to tolerate the beatings, learned to choke down the food to stay alive, and he clung to the bond that hung like gossamer between him and V. He knew his brother was alive and suffering as he suffered and his prayers went toward V instead of a God he wasn't certain he believed in anymore. Sometimes late in the night, he would feel his brother lying behind him and he would revel in the knowledge he wasn't ever quite alone._

_There came a day that something changed._

_V's side of the bond became chaotic and Stephen knew that something had changed for the worse. He paced his cell, nerves stretched to the utmost, trying to send his brother reassurance. He knew something was very very wrong but he was helpless in his cell. When they came to drag him out for another beating, he fought back, desperate to escape the hands of his captors. They didn't beat him that day; they clubbed him into unconsciousness and left him in a pool of his own blood._

_When he woke, he knew V was gone._

_It never occurred to Stephen that V was dead. He believed that he would know if V were dead and because he didn't feel it, he decided that he needed to gain his freedom. He had no intention of giving in to the bastards that had taken his mother and brother but he gave careful thought to his course of action._

_How could he get out of the cell, get to wherever V was being held, and save him?_

_The longer he thought on the problem, the narrower his field of options was. Finally there was only one option and he knew it had to be the one he took. The next day, when they came to drag him down for more torture, he didn't fight them. Sitting calmly in the center of his cell, he lifted his eyes to the foremost guard._

_"Tell Creedy," he said clearly. "I would like to be a Fingerman, if I may."_

_They did not beat him that day, nor the next. At the end of two days, he was released from the detainment center and transported to a location in London. He was hosed off and given new clothes and fed real food, the stuff that he'd nearly forgotten existed._

_The Fingermen taught him the art of being an enforcer._

_Stephen had never been particularly athletic before but the training consumed him. He learned at a rapid rate, proving himself worthy of his uniform until he attained the level of an Elite. He spent nearly a year, training every available hour, to perfect himself and force his superiors to acknowledge his worthiness. All the while in the back of his head, he could feel V screaming and he knew, without knowing how he knew, that time was running short. He struggled to shoulder his responsibilities, not to flinch when the people he went after wept and prayed for help, and he was as vicious as any other Fingerman._

_The day his crew was mustered to a place called Larkhill, he remembered riding in the transport with the other Fingermen, listening to the commanding officer as he read out their orders. They were nearly in the gates when they realized that the main building was burning. They were immediately deployed around the area to manage security._

_Stephen had taken no more than a footstep off the bus when the air went out of his lungs and he staggered. He sensed V close by and a rush of longing choked him. He reached for his brother only to find chaos, rage, and hatred as the connection was refused._

_He learned quite quickly what Larkhill was and deduced what had happened to V._

_Quietly, he slipped into the darkness, abandoning his team, and went looking for his brother. V wasn't hard to find. As boys, they could never play hide and seek. One could not fool the other; they found each other easily every time. Stephen came to V's hiding place and crouched in the shadows. "V," he said quietly. "It's Viv. I came."_

_The hand that reached out of the darkness was hideous, so burned and awful that Stephen's stomach rebelled against the idea that it belonged to his brother. He helped V into hiding, then used what little medic training he possessed to ease the terrible pain his brother was in. He didn't go back to the Fingermen. He sat with the burned and battered body that raved in it's pain and torment and tried to help heal it. He didn't let himself think about failure, or the logical outcome of his actions. He nursed V, administered pain relief and love, and kept his fears to himself._

_One night, V looked at him, his ruined face trying to smile. "I always hoped you'd come," he said, his voice rough, forever changed by the toxic smoke he'd inhaled. "But I didn't expect you to." He took in the clothes Stephen wore and his eyes darkened. "You became a Fingerman."_

_"Yes. I couldn't escape the detention center any other way." Stephen looked away guiltily. "I took what they gave me and I found you again. That was all I ever wanted, V."_

_V turned his face aside and they didn't talk again for days. Finally V offered a truce. "I know what you did, I know why you did it, but I can't approve." He touched his brother's hand. "You have to take a stand, Viv. If you stay a Fingerman, they will consume you. If you oppose them, they will kill you." He shook his head. "It's the devil's road you walk, my brother. Either way you end up in hell."_

_Stephen worked on healing V but the injuries his twin had sustained in Larkhill's explosion and immolation were too severe. It didn't help that V fell into despair, that every time he looked at Stephen, he knew all that he had lost, and his rage turned inward and destructive. Stephen had been caring for him for about six months when V crept into the little hoard of medicines and injected himself with enough morphine to kill three men. As he slipped away, Stephen woke but too late. V was breathing his last and there was nothing Stephen could do to change it._

_He went mad. Railing at his brother's corpse, he shattered everything in the room. Their separation was complete now and Stephen felt the loss with every breath. He ranted and raved like a lunatic until a thought came to him that threw him into complete stillness, his head cocked as he listened to the voice in his head._

_It was simple, it was direct, and it would pay back those who needed to suffer for their crimes._

_Vendetta._

_So blessedly simple, so perfect, so right. He began planning immediately. He needed to hide his identity from his enemies and he chose the one face that used to haunt his nightmares: Guy Fawkes. He wore black to show his mourning over the state of England and to hide in the shadows. He decided that his vengeance would take time, that the principals of his little drama needed to forget their acts, they needed to settle into their lives again, to build futures he planned to take from them at the worst possible moment. They had to suffer the complete and total loss he'd suffered._

_Years passed._

_Stephen would go into the light and rub shoulders with the Elite of the Fingermen, laughing and joking with them, then disappear into the night to reemerge as V and pay them out in death and pain. When the double life grew too encompassing, he had chosen to become V all the time, retreating to a place in the underground and filling it with precious works of art and works of literature._

_He memorized whole books in his solitude, whole movies, plays… Anything to ease the terrible loneliness he felt. He practiced with his daggers endlessly, finding perfection in his technique and satisfaction that he could kill quickly and cleanly. He became more daring, his strikes against the Norsefire party becoming more obvious, yet there was little announced about him. Nothing in the news or in print. Stephen became more convinced that he was a ghost like V was, that he had simply died with his twin and only the endless drive for revenge drove him into the streets night after night._

_His acts increased in daring and destruction. His agenda progressed toward its inevitable conclusion, an act of incredible scope and undeniable destruction. He would declare the vendetta openly by blowing up the Old Bailey, announcing open season on Norsefire, and if all went well, a year later, Parliament and Big Ben would fall as well, burying the decay of Norsefire under their rubble. On the night before the Old Bailey was to come down, Stephen dressed with care, making certain his appearance was as dramatic and imposing as possible. He set out for the Bailey with a light heart and the eagerness of a child to watch the penultimate step of his vengeance come to pass. The hour was late, a yellow-coded curfew was in effect and he didn't expect to meet anyone on the way that didn't deserve to die._

_He was caught off guard when Fate changed his plans for him at the last possible moment._

_He'd stumbled over three Fingermen about to rape a pretty young woman and he'd done as he'd always done before, defending the girl and dealing out stiff punishment to her attackers. When he'd turned to the girl at last, her wide expressive eyes had cut into him and found the heart he'd thought long gone. Evey, his brother's hated nickname, struck him as a sign and he invited her to play audience to his destruction of the Old Bailey. Afterward he'd seen her home and thought that was the end of that, slinking back to his home beneath the streets._

_Then, after moving against the BTN, he found himself at the mercy of a young policeman. Behind the gloating officer, Stephen saw a familiar figure, the girl from the alley the night before. She crept up on the young man and maced him, receiving a blow to the head for act which robbed her of her senses. Without stopping more than a moment to reconsider, Stephen picked up the slender unconscious body. He carried her with him back to his hidden home and he'd kept her…_

He blinked as Evey came to sit beside him, her arm encircling his waist, her face pressed up against his shoulder. "You saved me," she whispered. He put an arm around her, embracing her.

"We rather saved each other, I think, " he said slowly. "I was teetering on the edge of madness, Evey. Had I not kept you in the Shadow Gallery, I might not have made it that last year. I'd been without any human contact for so long, aside from taking out the occasional Fingerman cluster. I had to learn from you how to be civilized again." He laughed shakily. "Small wonder you thought I was mad."

"After all you went through, Stephen, it's a great wonder you aren't." She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. "I see now why you felt so strongly about the Fingermen, and why you made certain Creedy was taken care of. Why haven't the Fingermen just disappeared, since their leader is dead?"

Stephen heaved a sigh. "That is the worst of it, I suppose," he said, putting his hand flat against her back. "The reason the Fingermen still exist is because their real leader has been out of sight, still running things in secret. I intend to bring him out in the open and see that he is taken by the provisional government."

She lifted her head to look at him curiously. "That sounds terribly dangerous." She studied his face. "You know who this man is?"

"Very well, Evey. Once upon a time I called him Father."


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Note: We play with words, and the children of play with pictures and sound. If you haven't looked there for some inspiration, I recommend it to you. One I have in my favorites is "A Flurry of Vs", which clarified some of the alliterations for me. Thank you for your reviews. Pinky, you kill me. Thank you.-edited 09/13/07. This chapter has long bothered me and I had to contemplate the changes I wanted very carefully. It was a difficult edit and not my favorite to date. I was trying for a more realistic flow, a clarity that eluded me in the previous publication. It is going to stand this way. I hope that you like it.-I lied. New content. ES 2013 in gratitude foe 18000 hits!

Disclaimers: I am a humble acolyte at the Shrine of V, purloining the principals to people the play that I proposed. My pleasure in their perfection prompted me to precipitous presumption and pathetically I pretend to possess some particle of …eh, I don't own em, I just put 'em in this story for fun. I'll give 'em back, promise!

* * *

**Plans and Provisions**

It was late in the day that Eric arrived at Evey's flat and was allowed in. Stephen and Evey were preparing dinner, which is to say that Stephen was cooking and Evey was laying the table. She looked up at Eric. "Will you be staying to eat with us?"

He glanced at Stephen, who smiled as he added some spice to the pot on the stove. "I don't want to interrupt…"

"Nonsense, Mr. Finch," Stephen said. "You should join us. I am doing what I can with what Evey has in her kitchen, so it's a bit off the cuff, but I think there's more than enough for three." He lifted a brow. "Is Mr. Stone with you?"

"No, Dom's gone home." Eric rubbed his face. "It's been a busy day."

Evey pressed him into a chair. "Sit down and rest a minute, Eric. You look done in."

He didn't protest. The chair was comfortable and he was tired. "We got your guards back and I removed the body from your bathroom, Stephen. I took the liberty of calling a cleaning crew for trauma scenes and they should have everything righted shortly. We didn't see any other Fingermen, so either they figured out that Palmer was killed or they were too well disguised."

"They've likely gone to the old man and made him aware of my apparent defection." Stephen set the lid on the pot and dispensed with his apron. "Things are getting complicated, Mr. Finch, and I expect my deadline will be dramatically decreased."

Eric turned a weary eye his way. "Will you be able to meet it?"

"Oh, yes," Stephen said. "In point of fact, it's really already done. The money sits in an account earmarked for me or my father. It's ready, whenever he decides he wants it."

"Do I want to know how you got five million pounds in less than a week?" Eric asked. Stephen laughed.

"More like twenty years, Mr. Finch. I have been siphoning money from Norsefire for close to that. Five million was no great trick. It's all a case of knowing where to take it from and how much for how long…" He shrugged. "I spent a lot of time learning how to rob the thieves. It seemed fitting that their money should pay for their downfall." He sat down across from Eric, his expression sober. "I am sorry about your men, Mr. Finch. I had no idea that Palmer was watching my flat."

"Thank you, Stephen, but it was in the line of duty. They knew the risks they were taking." Eric hurt over it though; it was in his voice and the weariness that lay on him like a blanket. Stephen leaned toward him.

"If all goes well, you will have the man who authorized their deaths in a few days." The younger man's voice was serious. "I want you to take him, Mr. Finch, no one else."

"Why is that?"

"Because if I take him, I will kill him. You will not. You will deliver him to your due process and let your government do with him as they will." Stephen shook his head. "I will do everything in my power to see you get your chance, Mr. Finch. I want this over."

"Are you finished with your revenge?" Eric asked curiously. Stephen looked toward Evey and his expression softened slightly.

"I have begun to see that there is something after revenge, Mr. Finch, and I would like to explore that without the specter of my father haunting me. If he and I should come to grips, he will encourage me to kill him because death is easier than imprisonment. I do not want his end to be easy. I want it as hard and difficult as possible." Stephen shook his head. "If the government orders his death for his crimes, Justice is done. If they make him serve in prison, still it is Justice."

"I am glad you see that." Eric offered the younger man a smile. "You've come a long way."

"I've still farther to go, but I'm learning." Stephen got to his feet as a bell sounded in the kitchen. "Come and dine, Mr. Finch." He slid past Evey into the kitchen and she moved toward Eric in his stead.

"Come on, Eric," she said, offering him her hands. "Come and eat. Would you like anything to drink?"

"Whatever the house is offering," he said, taking her hands and getting out of the chair. Evey dimpled at him.

"I think it is white wine, but Stephen hasn't said yet."

"Definitely white," Stephen said. "Unless Mr. Finch wants something stronger. You have some very nice whiskey laid by, my love."

"White is fine," Eric replied, sitting where Evey directed him. Stephen filled his plate with something that smelled wonderful. Chicken in a cream sauce, with vegetables and pasta… He looked up in surprise. "You can cook?"

"Mr. Finch, I was twenty years underground. I had to eat." Stephen brought some rolls from the oven. "I cooked to please myself because I needed to eat and I needed enough calories to maintain my optimal fighting weight." He joined them at the table. "Eating is better when what you eat looks as good as it smells and stimulates your senses. I am a great believer in food having curative properties."

"Curative properties?" Eric picked up a fork. "I could use some of that."

Later, after dinner had been eaten and the dishes cleared away, they sat together. Eric had a glass of the whiskey with Stephen, talking quietly of various things. Stephen's view was a little old fashioned but he was a courteous listener and he liked to debate. Eric had a hard time grasping that this was the deadly V who had made a whole year pass with such fear and trepidation. Seated in Evey's flat, with her beside him, he seemed perfectly innocuous, discussing current events. When Eric decided to leave, Stephen shook his hand warmly, rising to escort him to the door. He looked at the taller man and nodded.

"She's safe with you."

Stephen's smile was genuine. "She is," he agreed. "But please, look to yourself, Mr. Finch. I need you for the rest of the game."

"I'll be there, Stephen."

The dark head nodded in reply. "Good. I always thought you would be."

Eric hesitated. "When you were talking to me as Rookwood, why did you tell me you were waiting for me?"

Stephen's eyes gleamed with humor. "I am surprised you remember it," he said dismissively. Eric shook his head.

"No, why?" For a long moment, Stephen was silent then he shrugged.

"You were my one righteous man in Sodom, Mr. Finch. You were honest and determined to have the truth despite the fact that getting it was political suicide. I knew that your integrity was the only thing that would keep the fascist government from winning in the end." He met Eric's gaze directly. "That was why I waited so long. I had to be certain you were willing to go the distance and not be swayed by the governmental pressure you were under."

Eric had no idea what to say to that. He stared at Stephen for a long moment. "Thank you." He offered Stephen his hand and Stephen accepted the gesture. Eric nodded to the younger man. "Thank you for supper, Stephen, and good night."

"Good night, Mr. Finch."

When the door closed behind Eric, Stephen locked up carefully and made his way back to Evey. She smiled up at him, love shining from her eyes. "Are we ready for bed?" she asked hopefully.

He grinned, lifting her from her chair by tugging lightly on her hands. "I am in your home," he pointed out. "As you were once in mine." He traced her face with one finger. "What will you do to me, now that I am in your power?"

"I will beguile you," she said, leading him towards the bedroom. "I will ravish you and I will devour you. If you're very lucky," and she gave him a smoldering look. "I will do it twice."

"I'm a Gemini," he said laughing. "I'm always lucky."

She closed the bedroom door and turned to him, her intent expression focused on his mouth. "First, I want this," she whispered and drew his mouth to her lips. She kissed him slowly, moving from the left corner of his mouth to the right. Stephen groaned against her mouth, his knees going weak as she deepened the kiss until their tongues dueled. He caught her shoulders, pulling her closer still until their bodies touched from breast to knee. Her arms went around him until she was clinging to him. They stayed that way for a long time until Evey pulled away.

She helped him remove his shirt, looking again at the scars on his torso, her eyes shadowed. Stephen didn't retreat from her inspection. When she was satisfied, she met his gaze. "You were cruel," she said lightly. "To keep all of this hidden under those silk shirts and vests, under all those black clothes. Do you have any idea how many nights I went to bed wondering what you looked like under those clothes? How often I wanted to run my hands over you and feel you up?"

He chuckled, the sound almost a purr. "I could say the same of you, my love. Have you any idea how fetching you looked to a man whose first companion in nearly 20 years was a nubile nymph? I tried very hard to be a gentleman but…" A shadow crossed his face. "It was hell, Evey. Even when I tried to break you, what I wanted was to eat you alive. It took all my control to keep my hands from you."

"I don't want to think about that part of our past. I forgave you that when I had the strength to do it." She shook her head firmly. "You did what you thought was best at the time and I was stronger for it." She laid her palms on his chest, felt his heart bounding at the simple touch. "I like knowing I affect you this way." Her left hand lowered, skimming downward. Stephen hissed, a gasp of pleasure. Evey smiled with feminine smugness. "I affect you this way too, it seems."

His eyes closed. "Everything you do affects me, Evey. Stop tormenting me, my love." She laughed and led him to the bed, pressing him down on the mattress. When he was on his back, she straddled him. He groaned softly, sliding his hands up her thighs, under the hem of her skirt. To his astonishment, she had nothing on beneath it. His eyes opened wide in shock and Evey laughed.

"I thought about you when I changed clothes earlier."

"You," he started to say but his voice failed him. "You were like this all night?" he asked in amazement. "And you asked Eric to stay?"

"Well, it was supposed to be a surprise for you, but Eric seemed to need company tonight. You and I have the rest of our lives, Stephen. I thought my surprise might keep."

She leaned forward to kiss him again. "Touch me, Stephen."

"As my lady wishes," he gasped as her hands grew more insistent. He reached over to switch off the light before casting himself as the big bad wolf and showing her what happens to little girls who wander alone in the dark...

* * *

The next day, they went back to Stephen's flat to pack up a few things in preparation for Stephen's move to Evey's. Mid morning, a rap on the door alerted them to someone's arrival. Stephen answered the door, his stiletto tucked within easy reach at the back of his slacks. A young woman stood on his doorstep, dark eyes sober as she stared up at him, a policeman beside her.

"She asked to see you," the officer said roughly. "When Terry searched her, she broke his hand." He did not touch the slender form beside him, although she looked innocent in her blue jeans and a forest green long sleeved blouse, her hands clasped before her demurely.

"That was unkind of you," Stephen said mildly. The girl smiled coyly, the expression not reaching her dark brown eyes.

"Well," she said, her voice sweet. "I came to visit you, Stephen. The bobby touched me inappropriately and so I chastised him." She tilted her head curiously. "May I come in? On my honour, I only carry a message."

He realized who she was then and his eyes widened. "You are Clarissa."

"I am."

He frowned. "Why would my father send you?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps it is because I can move easily in London, I am not a Fingerman, and I wanted to come." Another smile. " Perhaps it was merely convenient for him."

Stephen gave the signal for Eric to be called and let the young woman into the room. She stepped past him soundlessly, her back to him as he closed the door. Without turning around, she waited for his direction. "Won't you please sit down?" he asked. "You've come a long way and I am certain you're tired."

"What you hope for," she said firmly, the quote ringing in Stephen's head. "Is that at some point of the pointless journey, Indoors or out, and when you least expect it, Right in the middle of your stride, like that, So neatly that you never feel a thing, The kind assassin Sleep will draw a bead and blow your brains out."1

He canted a brow in surprise. "An unusual choice, Clarissa." He ushered her to a chair. "Please make yourself comfortable." She sat obediently, hands folded primly on her lap. Stephen took the seat opposite her, examining her silently. She didn't blush or act embarassed, merely let him look as she stared right back at him without comment. "You said you bring a message?"

"There is always a message." The brown eyes searched his face. "I can see the resemblance." Her expression hardened. "How disappointing."

"I was always told that I favored my mother in appearance…"

She frowned before glancing away. "I didn't say to whom," she interrupted. "Is the girl going to skulk in the hallway during this visit and listen in or will she be joining us out in the open?"

Evey appeared, approaching them warily. A glance at Stephen told her to join them and she perched upon the end of the sofa nearest him in the living room. Clarissa turned her head, taking in the other woman's arrival without comment before focusing back on Stephen. He found her gaze to be direct and without any pretense that she was doing anything other than examining him.

"You surely did not come here merely to compare me to my father."

"No, I did not." She blinked. "Atherton asked me to give you a message." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "He said: Timetable has been changed, I expect you to deliver the monies by the 72 hour deadline. V is a complication neither of us can afford. When the exchange is complete, your sentence will be lifted." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "So unsubtle," she complained. "But there it is."

"Seventy-two hours!" Evey exclaimed. "But I thought that you had ten days left..."

Clarissa leaned back, shaking her head. "Hence the message," she pointed out. "If the schedule had remained what it was, I wouldn't have been sent."

Stephen watched her carefully. Something about her seemed strangely familiar, her attitude confident to the point of arrogance. Seated on a chair, her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap, she might have been at tea, so comfortable did she seem. He felt that there was far more to her than the obvious. "Do you often carry my father's messages?" She lifted a brow.

"I am multi-talented," she retorted. "Courier work is but one service I offer."

"You are younger than I thought you'd be," Stephen murmured. "The portrait in the study didn't do you justice."

"Justice is such a rare commodity these days, Stephen. I shouldn't have thought it your concern."

"Justice, " he repeated. "Is a great leveler. It comes to every man who demands it and to those who attempt to escape it."

Clarissa tutted softly. "Ah, but she is blind, Stephen, and gullible. She listens to her petitioners, without understanding that actions speak louder than words." The girl spread her hands, shoulders lifting in a casual shrug. "After all, a man's words are much like paper currency, aren't they? They only have worth if one believes them representative of something valuable and accepts them as such." She sighed. "I prefer a far more solid basis of exchange myself, a currency of more enduring value."

"Oh? And that would be?"

"Blood, of course." Clarissa folded her hands again. "It more accurately represents an individual's commitment to their cause. Not," she said, forestalling his next remark. "In the sense of how much a man sheds for his beliefs but in how much he is willing to offer for them."

Stephen nodded, leaning back himself to study her. "Interesting point," he said agreeably. "I admit that I am surprised that you feel that way."

"Are you?" Her lips quirked into a faint smile but it didn't reach her eyes. "It's an unpopular view in my current situation but I personally feel it is a valid one. Many men might kill for their beliefs but far fewer will suffer physical pain for them."

"Did my father teach you that?"

The question startled the girl into a laugh. "Hardly. He would never agree with me. To Atherton, neither word nor blood holds the slightest value. He trusts in nothing."

"Not even love?"

She grimaced. "Nothing, Stephen. I thought the term would include that as well." She studied the toe of her shoe. "Atherton would be the first to tell you that he believes emotional responses are the result of chemical and hormonal idiocy."

Evey shuddered at the tone of the girl's voice, it was hard and cold with the echo of well learned lessons. "And still you're his lover?" she asked. Clarissa's reaction was immediate.

"That is disgusting!" she spat, springing to her feet. Stephen rose as well and they were toe to toe, the slender woman glaring past him at Evey. "He has never touched me!"

"I saw the portrait of you both in his study." Stephen retorted. "He said you'd been a comfort to him."

Pain tore across the porcelain features to vanish under rage. "I am his grandchild. Damn you and damn him." She turned toward the door. "I'm leaving. Tell your dogs."

Stephen caught her arm and she moved so swiftly that it took him by surprise. She spun out of his grip, flinging one arm up to clip him by the ear. The world teetered but he grabbed her again, twisting one arm up behind her and pinning her with his other around the throat. She struggled for a moment then went still. "Do you plan to kill me?" she asked hoarsely.

"You claim to be Evelyn's daughter?" Stephen growled in her ear. She turned her face away from him silently. "How?"

She panted in his grip. "Haven't you ever read biology?"

He ignored the jibe. "Explain yourself," he growled.

"You went to Larkhill," she hissed. "Can't you connect the dots?" She struggled again, unable to shake him off. His grip tightened.

"Connect them for me."

She shuddered. "When Evelyn was tested, certain markers in his DNA made him an excellent subject for study. As part of the protocols, Doctor Stanton decided to see if those anomalies would be transferred from parent to progeny. It wasn't a great success and I am the only surviving offspring." She tried to pull herself away but he held her fast. She struggled for a moment then stilled again. "I wouldn't mind dying," she said matter of factly.

"I've no intention of killing you, you idiot." Stephen muttered. "V never spoke of a daughter, of any child."

"Well, so much for a father's pride," she snapped bitterly. "And a fine uncle you've turned out to be."

She dipped her chin and bit down savagely on the arm at her throat, lashing back with one foot to stomp fiercely on his instep. Stephen cursed and released her, astonished when she faced him, her hands raised defensively. Her pretty features twisted with fury. "I said I would leave." She backed toward the door, watching him warily.

Behind her the door opened admitting Eric Finch into the room. One glance told him that something was happening and he was startled when a young woman rounded on him. Her hand lifted to deal out a blow but she checked the strike at the last moment even as Evey cried out a warning. Eric reached out and caught the girl's wrists. She stared at him, wild-eyed and pale, then she burst into tears, which shocked the officer even more than the retracted blow.

"Don't let her near your weapon," Stephen warned Eric sharply. "Apparently this is my niece, Clarissa."

The girl sobbed as Eric guided her back to a chair. She sank into the seat, wrenching herself from his grasp before covering her face with shaking hands.

"Your niece," Eric repeated slowly. He flicked a curious glance at Stephen. "She's the one who broke my man's hand, I suppose?" Clarissa's slender frame didn't seem threatening to the officer but Stephen's grim nod made him pause. The girl lifted tear-drenched eyes to the older man, her expression full of grief. Eric felt a surge of pity for her; she seemed so delicate and young. The policeman promptly offered her a handkerchief, which she took with trembling fingers, dabbing at her eyes delicately.

"I want to leave now," she sobbed. "I did as I was ordered. I told you what you needed to know."

"There's a damn sight more you left out," Stephen retorted. "You'll stay until I know the rest."

"No!"

She started to lunge from the chair but Eric clapped a hand on her shoulder, restraining her lightly. Clarissa subsided with a soft cry, shuddering under his casual touch. He looked to Stephen in confusion. The younger man stared at the girl's face, his expression shifting from suspicion to fury. Stephen stooped in a crouch before Clarissa and reached out to take her arm. She flinched from his hand and shrank back in the chair. He ignored her reaction, seizing her wrist and sliding up the long sleeve of her blouse.

The skin of her arm was mottled with bruises.

Stephen hissed in outrage. "He treats you like this?"

"The sins of the father," she answered, her tears evaporating into resentment. "I'm well trained."

Eric recognized the bruising as the same sort that Stephen had recovered from. To think this slip of a girl had undergone the same punishment was appalling. He looked at Stephen, saw the fury in his eyes and knew without a doubt Atherton Avery would have to account for this as well.

Stephen nodded at Clarissa whose tearful act evaporated under his stare. She glared at him hatefully, unable to free her arm from his grasp."You are a Finger, are you?"

"No, not officially," she replied, glowering at him balefully. "I hadn't had any beatings since Parliament fell. Nearly a year since the last and now they begin again."

In the shocked moment that followed her revelation, she kicked Stephen away from her with a foot to his chest, springing from the chair and eluding Eric's hand. She turned to face them, knowing that they were between her and the door. Stephen started toward her, intent on recapturing her. She dragged off her belt and lashed at Stephen with the heavy buckle as he approached her. He moved into the blow, shrugging it off, and wrapped his arms around her. She struggled in his embrace, flailing at him frantically. "I hate you!"

"Clarissa," he said, ignoring the blows, without releasing her. "Hate me you may, but you are not going back to him. I will protect you. I promise." She writhed in his grip, struggling fiercely to be free of him. He held her in his embrace, worried more about harming her than about her harming him, knowing that she had to be suffering from the pressure of his arms. "I swear I never knew that you existed. If I had, I would have moved things much faster."

"Let...me...go..." she panted, pushing at him. Her calm demeanor had disappeared completely, giving way to utter panic. "Release me!" He ignored her terror, focusing on keeping her long enough to make her understand him. She fought against him mindlessly, desperate to escape his touch

"Listen," he ordered fiercely. "You will be safe here, Clarissa. Atherton can't reach you, no one will hurt..." She grappled with him, fingers raking down his back. He felt her locate the hilt of the stiletto and knew that the balance of power had shifted. Snatching the narrow blade free of its hiding place, she laid the point against his throat.

"Let me go!"

"I can make certain Atherton never harms you again, Clarissa. You need never go back."

"Shall I wait for your brother?" she hissed at him. "I must go."

"He's not coming, Clarissa. V is dead. Dead a long time now. Do you want to kill me too?" he asked softly.

Eye to eye, they were locked together in stillness, the little knife at Stephen's throat close to the pulsing artery. The world narrowed to just the two of them and Stephen stared into Clarissa's eyes. She was afraid and panicked but capable despite her condition. Stephen held her tightly in his embrace, knowing that the action had to be excruciatingly painful but unable to release her. She was a few millimeters from cutting his throat, he knew, the ferocity in her eyes signalling her readiness.

As he stared into her eyes, he found the glimmer of his brother's presence within her. The connection snapped into place, awareness of her running through him as sharp as regret, as dear as memory. Years without Evelyn hadn't dimmed the sensation. Stephen felt the shock of it along his nerves, like a limb waking: pins and needles though his whole being.

Clarissa gasped, arching back, her eyes locked with his, as she felt it too. Her lips parted as though she would speak but nothing came. The knife clattered from nerveless fingers as she went limp in his arms. Her brain simply shut down in shock. Stephen shifted his balance and lifted her in his arms. When he laid her on the sofa, he checked her pulse cautiously. Eric leaned over them.

"What the hell just happened?" he asked. Stephen didn't look up from the girl. "Why did you do to her?"

Evey came to stand beside Stephen, her face pale. "I thought she was going to kill you," she whispered. He stood with a sigh.

"She meant to, but then…" He reached down and touched the girl's hair. "I felt Evelyn in her, the bond we had. I felt it in her." He looked to Eric, suddenly haggard. "She cannot go back there. This changes everything." He stalked toward the bedroom and Evey followed him, perplexed.

"What do you intend to do?" she begged. Stephen slammed into the closet and rummaged for something on a shelf.

"I am done negotiating," he snapped. "It is time to end this game once and for all."

In the living room, the policeman moved over to stand over the unconsious girl, looking down at her. Her pretty face seemed so innocent in repose, long brown hair tousled and damp lashes resting against her pale cheeks vulnerably. Such a difference from the fear of moments before. She was beautiful, the only detraction to her beauty was the mottled bruising on her arm. Eric reached out and slid her sleeve back into place to hide the colorful marks, automatically noting the blend of old and new injuries on her smooth skin. He knew from long experience that the presence of so many colors on her arm spoke of long and multiple sessions with people who took their abilities to bring pain very seriously.

She looked so helplessly young, he thought gravely. Why would someone take so much time and effort to batter her? The only answer was sadism and it saddened him to think that there were people who enjoyed inflicting so much agony on such a delicate victim. With a sigh, he reached out to tug the afghan from the back of the sofa to cover her, the reaction born from the concern that she might be suffering from shock. As he pulled it up and over her shoulder, the action brought him close enough to her that he could smell the sweet herbal scent of her perfume.

Her eyes snapped open, the brown depths full of fear.

A crash from the living room brought Stephen and Evey at a run.

Eric lay beside the coffee table and Clarissa was gone. Stephen stopped and checked the Inspector's heartbeat, his eyes searching the room. The balcony door was open. Stephen rushed outside and looked around. Looking down over the railing, he could see Clarissa making her way toward the street from balcony to balcony, her lithe figure moving fast. His heart stuttered at the danger she was in. Already several floors below Evey's flat, she paused and looked up. From his vantage, Stephen couldn't see her expression but he could sense the confusion and anger that radiated from her. She contined her hazardous progress at breakneck speed before she dropped to street level and vanished into the crowd passing on the sidewalk.

Stephen cursed.

She was on her way back to Atherton, he knew it, and he'd told her V was dead. Time was effectively no longer his to toy with. Atherton would have the truth by evening if not sooner.

* * *

1 Richard Purdy Wilbur. Walking to Sleep


	19. Chapter 19

Author's Note: I haven't anything clever to say today. Just grateful for the reviews. We should be nearing the end of the ride, kiddies. Time's running out, don't you think?-edited 09/13/07. I haven't fully decided yet but I think that there may be an extra chapter coming up. It taunts me with possibilites and I rather think it is coming clearer to me with every edit. So this version may have another addition in the form of a chapter 22. Hope you like it. ES

Disclaimers: I don't own the Universe O'V4V. How I wish I did. Sadly, I must be satisfied with my little version of events.

* * *

**Burlwood and Betrayal**

Inspector Finch was seated in a chair, a look of injured ego on his face and an ice pack against the lump on his jaw. Evey turned to Stephen who was pacing the room, his expression full of fury. She opened her mouth to speak and he shook his head at her.

"There's nothing to say," he told her bitterly. "I miscalculated."

"She's your niece?" Eric said when the silence grew too long. Stephen nodded.

"So she claimed." He scowled as he completed another circuit of the room. "And I believe her. There are some things I don't understand, answers I don't have." He fisted his hands grimly. "Dr. Sur... Stanton told me only a part of the tale at the end, I think."

Eric looked up. "I have her journals." He blinked at Stephen. "You left one for us, remember?" Stephen nodded and Eric continued. "There was a second journal, written in code. It was in her personal safe, located in her closet. We stopped trying to crack the cipher when the government threatened to bury us. After the fifth, it went into the file for Codename V."

"You still have it?" Stephen asked. Eric nodded. "I would like to get a look at it," the younger man said slowly. "I might recognize something."

"I'll call Dom and have him run it by." Eric got up and went to the phone. Stephen looked at Evey.

"I told her V was dead," he said quietly. "My father will know by dark that I am really V. When that happens, there won't be enough money to ransom my life." He met her gaze. "It will be all or nothing."

"It will be all," she said. "I am not going to lose you again."

"Nor I you, Evey, my love. I have too much to live for." He slid beside her, his hand cupping her face. "A real future, with a wife and perhaps children."

She laid her hand over his, pressing her cheek into his palm. "Am I a part of those plans, sir?"

"Ah, yes," he said gravely. "I am certain that my wife and I will need a nanny." In mock outrage, she punched his shoulder, making him laugh. Eric came back to them.

"Dom will have it here within the half hour." Stephen nodded.

"Good." He heaved a sigh. "I rather expect we'll hear from my father within a few hours."

Later that afternoon, Stephen finally put the encoded journal aside, his expression bleak as he went out onto the balcony. He'd learned nothing but a few more evils that sprang from Larkhill's halls.

Looking out over the city of London, he felt despair falling over him like the coming night. Everything he'd done since bringing V back to the city, all the acts of vengeance, all the dangers, seemed like nothing compared to the fact that V's child had suffered at Atherton's hands as her father had. Clarissa was an unexpected complication. He'd given her the secret to his identity, appalled that he had been responsible for her terrible suffering. She would of course carry the information back to Atherton…

He closed his eyes, out of habit feeling for that glimmer of connection. He remembered dreaming of V before coming back to London… What had his twin said in that dream?

_"The cipher is your stickler to solve. I shall only be with you in spirit as you struggle toward a solution, supporting you as you seek your salvation. Someone's safety, someone special, is suspended from the superseding supposition's settlement."_

Stephen's eyes snapped open and he felt a chill run through him. He'd thought at the time that the someone V mentioned was Evey because of the attempts on her safety. Now, he wondered, had V given him a message from beyond the grave? Was the someone V alluded to Clarissa? The child was something totally unexpected to Stephen but then he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. It made sense that the doctors at Larkhill had wanted to test the anomalies they'd found in V by putting him in a breeding program. Atherton would have found a grandchild as valuable as a son, perhaps more if she were malleable.

Clarissa seemed fairly self-confident, her actions were as cool and quick as Stephen's own, and she had courage to come and face him despite her physical and emotional discomfort. He somehow thought that she was not malleable in the least, that she was living by her wits in intolerable conditions, and he felt sympathy for her. A child born in a chamber of horrors, raised by a monster, told her father was monstrous; what must Clarissa think of her life? Was she angry? Was she insane? Was she lost?

Somewhere the telephone rang and Stephen moved back inside to pick up the cellular phone that Palmer had gifted him with, knowing the moment he touched the plastic who was calling without a glance at the ID screen.

"Hello, Clarissa."

There came a soft sound over the line, immediately stifled. "Awfully certain of yourself," she said after a moment. Stephen closed his eyes, weirdly relieved that it was the girl.

"You knew I would answer," he pointed out. "That's why you didn't hang up."

"It's your telephone..."

"And you sensed I would answer. You felt it, didn't you?"

Silence hung on the line, wrung out and slowly drying. "Well," she sighed at last. "I didn't call to fence with you."

"Then why did you call, Clarissa?"

"Stop saying my name like you know me," she hissed. "I am not going to believe in some familial connection simply because you and my father were monozygotic. It's ludicrous." Stephen waited and Clarissa continued. "I shouldn't be calling you. It's madness to talk to you about anything but…" She paused again, the silence full of import to Stephen. When she spoke again, the words trembled. "Did I hurt the man with the nice eyes?" Her whisper was almost too soft to make out. "I didn't realize… He was too close and I swung out before I thought about it."

"He is bruised and a bit confused." Stephen assured her quietly. "You hurt his feelings more than anything else." He kept his eyes closed, listening intently to the sounds from her end of the connection. "His name is Eric Finch; he is an Inspector with the police. He would have helped protect you."

"He was too close…" Her breathing was faster, her tone aggrieved. "I didn't mean to hurt him."

"You didn't hurt him much." He suppressed the urge to say more, listening to what she wasn't saying. It wasn't as clear as when Evelyn was alive, nor as strong as when he'd been touching Clarissa, but he could feel something all the same. "Are you hurt?" he asked softly. "Do you need anything?"

"I want nothing from you."

"And yet you called me, Clarissa."

"Stop saying my name like that!" He could almost taste her irritation, metallic on his tongue. She didn't want to speak with him but felt compelled to. He curbed his urge to push her, thinking calming thoughts instead.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "Why did you call?"

"I will be at Burlwood tonight, Stephen."

"You aren't staying in the city then?"

"Certainly not." Her voice became cool and distant. "I will give Atherton your agreement to the 72 hours upon my return. The clock started when I delivered the message to you. You do understand that, don't you?"

Stephen frowned. What was she talking about? Had she forgotten what he'd told her? How could the meeting continue as planned?

"Did you hear me, Stephen?"

"Yes," he said slowly. "I heard you."

"Good. You'll have no difficulty in providing the co-signature for the account?"

"None."

"Excellent, Atherton will be pleased." She continued without waiting for a response. "I advise you to be cautious, Stephen. Be very careful that V does not catch you out. No excuses will be accepted if you miss the meeting."

Stephen frowned, puzzled by her words. She knew he was V now. Why would she caution him against himself? "I am not concerned about V."

She was walking as she spoke; he could hear it over the phone in the way she breathed. "You will be required at Burlwood, Stephen, for the transfer, since it's the safest place for it."

"I would prefer a more neutral location."

"I am certain you would." She huffed a breathless laugh. "But it matters little what you want. There is speculation that V can track his quarry's movements by some means the Fingermen have not yet detected. As Atherton knows Burlwood is safe, he has no reason to come to London, now, has he? "

"Aren't you concerned that you might be tracked, Clarissa?"

She giggled girlishly. "I'm fairly certain that V isn't following me. He never has before. I don't think I interest him very much."

"That nearly sounds a challenge, Clarissa," he said reprovingly. "As in: he never has, he never will."

"However you wish to take it. What matters are Atherton's perceptions and his comfort, don't you agree?"

"I suppose you are correct." He felt a rush of exhaustion wash over him, the sensation strangely fraught with emotion. "I will bear your warnings in mind. is there anything else I can do for you?"

She hesitated for a moment. "Please convey my regrets to the Inspector, won't you?" So polite and formal, the question teetered uncertainly over the quiet.

"And do you regret your actions, Clarissa?" he questioned softly. Silence answered him, moments ticking by slowly.

"I didn't mean to hit him, Stephen, as I said." A sigh crossed the line, followed by Clarissa's voice again. "I bear him no ill will. He was... nice and did not deserve the blow. Please..."

"I will give him your regrets, if you wish me to."

"Yes, well, please do, as I doubt we shall meet again, he and I." She made a soft sound. "It will be better that way."

The connection broke and Stephen took in a deep breath, realizing he'd been holding it while listening. Clarissa's voice rang in his ears; the conversation had so many overtones of someone speaking in coded phrases. He went to the table and sat down to write down the conversation as clearly as he remembered it.

Later still, Eric Finch and Evey returned from their work to find him mulling over his chat with Clarissa, a pad of paper before him covered in notes and comments. The man who'd shouldered a vendetta for two decades looked as though he'd fought his last battle. "What are you doing?" Evey asked, hurrying to his side.

"Clarissa phoned." Stephen said thoughtfully. He tapped the paper. "I think she wanted to give me a message but she was not alone." Evey looked at the page as Eric joined them.

"What did she say?" the officer asked.

"She asked me to apologize to you. She said you were too close and she hit you out of instinct, not desire." Stephen rubbed his face one handed. "She said that the 72 hours still stood, that she would indicate my agreement to my father's terms. She also made several other points, which concern V." He gestured to the paper. "I wrote down all I could remember of them."

Eric took the paper from Evey, reading it silently as he took a seat. When he looked up, he was frowning. "She seems to be hinting that V should come to Burlwood, that Atherton might change residences then."

"Where would he go?" Evey asked, running a hand over Stephen's taut shoulders.

"There's a place somewhere in London and there's Gallowsmere. I hardly think he'd go to the latter." Stephen shook his head. "I think that we need to challenge Burlwood's security, force the old man into London. We'd need a team of men, combat ready, Mr. Finch, and a map… Do you think we can get them in less than 24 hours?"

Eric nodded. "Yes, I do."

* * *

_Thirty-six hours later_

_Burlwood_

Clarissa exercised alone, her routine much as it had always been, and tried to ignore the fluttering of her stretched nerves. She had the stereo system in her exercise room up to nearly maximum volume, the driving music pushing her as she practiced the fighting styles she'd been taught. Usually the music relaxed her, the beat keeping her focused on the timing of each move, signaling a change from martial arts to fencing to straight out boxing. She worked alone tonight, no partner to strive against, just the screaming in her head keeping her company.

She battered her fencing dummy, hands and feet finding imaginary nerve clusters and inflicting potential damage that would have proven life threatening to a live partner. She spun away from it at last, her mouth dry from shouting. Panting she went to a side table and poured a cup of water, forcing herself to sip it slowly.

"I feel something is coming," she whispered. The music changed gears, becoming a shrill keening of guitars and a crescendo of drums. She spun away from the table and ran through her exercises faster, trying to steady herself in the old routines. It wasn't working. She vaulted onto a set of uneven bars and swung herself upward with agile grace, the bars her favorite of all the things she did. How easily it came to her now, the fierce swing up, folding over the bar and spinning to lift to the bar she'd left behind. She worked them until she was dizzy, dismounting to land solidly on her feet.

The music shut off an instant later, the abrupt silence more jarring than the music had been. She spun to see who'd dared to touch her stereo, prepared to reprimand whomever had breached her exercise room uninvited. She blinked at the sight of the white Guy Fawkes mask and the man in black. "V." she whispered, feeling that this was perhaps right, that her beginning and her end would be like bookends.

She took in the blades at his waist, the set of his body and wondered if she could get to her own weapons. He shook his head at her, the mask grinning obscenely. "That wouldn't be wise, Clarissa," he said with obvious warning. She stepped back sharply as he extended his hand toward her.

"Stop saying my name like that!" she warned. "You don't know me."

"Clarissa, come with me willingly…" V invited, his voice rich and warm with promise. "I still offer you protection."

"Top of the stairs, third door on the left. He's with his mistress tonight. How you got this far without hitting one of the alarms is a miracle." She backed away farther. "Go, have your bloody revenge, I want none of it and none of you." He stepped forward, black cloak billowing around him, that grinning mask eerie in the normally sane and familiar room. She stepped back again, pawn to his advancing King, move matching move. "I am not who you came for."

"Are you so certain of that, Clarissa?"

The soft question sent a spear of terror through Clarissa, stealing her breath. She backed away faster only to collide with something behind her, feeling a sting in her arm that made her turn around savagely. The sight of the man she'd hit the day before jolted her and she recoiled. Whirling on one foot, she tried to run for the door but a sudden numbness made her stagger. She fought for balance, stumbling instead. The drug was fast, she realized distantly. It was fast and she was cold, so cold as she fell to the floor, falling into darkness...

Eric checked Clarissa, noting that she was unconscious but her heart rate and breathing seemed normal. The man in the mask joined him, helping him lift the girl. "Can you manage her, Mr. Finch?"

"She's not very heavy." Eric looked down at his burden. "Will the drug last long?"

"If her metabolism is anything like mine, about four hours. Can you get her to the car alone?" V looked toward the door. "I need to make an appearance." He saw the Inspector nod and strode for the door. Eric carried the limp girl out through the opening that had given them admittance and headed across the grounds to the waiting vehicles.

* * *

Clarissa came awake suddenly, gasping in remembered horror. Finding herself lying on a hard cot, she struggled to rise. Finally she rolled to her feet, looking around wildly, still muddled with the drug. Her legs gave out almost at once and she collapsed to her knees, trying to catch herself with her hands. When she noticed that she was handcuffed, her heart sank as her memory slowly caught up with her.

_**V had come to Burlwood.**_

That she was bound meant Stephen had failed to roust Atherton and she was facing another lashing. She shook her head. So much for that plan. She should never have trusted him to understand her message. She blinked to clear her vision and looked around. The cell was big. She frowned.

It was too big. Not her usual accomodations. Where the hell was she this time? She staggered to her feet, taking it slower, trying to recover her balance. The door was to her left, the cot now behind her. She made her way to the window, trying to see anything. The frosted panes of glass showed her nothing helpful.

Behind her, the door clanged as it was unlocked. She turned to face the threat, still feeling helpless. She raised her hands, the cuffs tight enough that her fingers were cold but she had nothing else to defend herself with. Stephen, still dressed in V's clothes but unmasked, entered with the policeman, the door closing behind them. She started in surprise. "You?"

Stephen nodded. "Yes."

She shook her head. "'I don't understand. You were only supposed to breach Burlwood's security."

"Which was done. Proof of that is your presence here, is it not?" Stephen gestured to Eric. "You remember Mr. Finch?"

She frowned as more memories filtered through her fogged brain. "You came to my playroom," she said in puzzlement. "You drugged me."

"Yes." Eric admitted, looking chagrined. "Can we take the cuffs off?" he asked Stephen. The younger man shrugged.

"That depends entirely upon Clarissa. Are you going to fight us, Clarissa?"

She blanched, her eyes widening in a horrified expression. She backed farther against the wall. "Did you honestly think I would agree to you… that's beyond repulsive!" She slid into the corner, half crouching. "I will not submit."

Stephen stared at her uncomprehendingly until Eric stepped forward. "No, miss, that's not what he meant." The older of the two men lowered himself to her level, leaving space between them. His tone was gentle and soothing as he continued speaking slowly and clearly. "You are in protective custody; no one is going to touch you without your permission. Stephen is asking you if you are going to fight being kept here until you are safe from Atherton."

She looked at him suspiciously. His face, lined with exhaustion, was mild, his eyes were brown and warm. He didn't seem angry at her, even though she'd struck him on their first meeting. "Where am I?"

"We cannot answer that. You are no longer in Burlwood, Clarissa, but somewhere safe. Atherton cannot find you here." Stephen was suddenly grey. "Take the handcuffs off of her, Mr. Finch. She needs to know she can fight if there is cause." He focused on Clarissa's face sternly. "If you harm him again, I will punish you. Do you understand?"

She nodded warily and tried not to flinch as the policeman touched her. He did not look at her as he undid each cuff, keeping his eyes down. Clarissa cringed away from him when she was free, looking at Stephen. "How long will I be here?"

"Until Atherton is taken care of." Stephen's voice was hollow. "It will not be long now." He moved back to the door, keeping Clarissa in his sights. "Come, Mr. Finch. Let us leave my niece to herself. She needs time to recover." Eric moved to follow, glancing back at Clarissa regretfully. She watched them go out the door and when the lock turned, she buried her face in her hands and wept silently.

Outside the cell, Stephen stormed along the corridor and into the main part of the Shadow Gallery. Eric followed silently, reading the rage in his friend's stride and stance. At length, the younger man rounded on him. "She thought we intended to…assault her."

"I know." Eric rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tension that was collecting there. "It's probable that it has happened before."

"She is a child!"

"No, she isn't." Evey appeared from her old room. "Stephen, I was in a JRC for 5 years. Do you think it never happened to me?" She looked at him sadly. "I can't imagine that being among Fingermen for her whole life hasn't meant rough trade." Evey put her hands on her lover, soothing him with her touch. "She's young but she's tough. She survived. You have her now,; if all goes well, she'll never face that again."

"She should have never faced it at all."

"True," Eric said. "But you can't change the past. You can only prepare for the future." He checked his watch. "She's been hostage to V's actions for a long time, Stephen. Your relationship is going to be adversarial at best. She did what she dared to help you, now we need to help her while you tend to Atherton. She has been programmed to act and think like a Fingerman, to answer to Atherton's whims. She's a fighter; you saw that, we all have." He glanced behind him. "We can bring her round, Stephen. Between us, we can give her the start of being free."

"She cannot ever again think I would touch her in such a way or allow another to do so." He looked at the door to the corridor of cells. "I could kill my father for that alone." A muscle jumped in his jaw as he gritted his teeth. "I would go back and kill all of Larkhill's minions again if I could." His gaze swept around at the hastily and less lavishly redecorated Gallery. "Will you both be comfortable here while I go above? There are plenty of security measures in place to protect you but I do not want Clarissa to be alone with just one keeper."

"Do whatever you must, Stephen." Evey said, leaning up to kiss him. "Be careful."

Stephen nodded. "I'll return soon." With a final glance at the cell block, he swept away from them and vanished through another doorway, leaving silence in his wake.


	20. Chapter 20

Author's Note: Dear readers, I fear tonight's chapter may be a bit smaller than preceding chapters. This is not due to any waning of my interest but rather to that fact your author has a raging cold and is utterly wiped out. sigh RL sux. I will continue to post daily as possible; I am as into the tale as you are, believe me. Thank you for the reviews; they are the chicken soup of the cyber world. Thank you always.- edited 09/14/07. As I near the end of the edit, I wonder if this effort has been successful. I think the tale reads better than when I set it out to begin with. ES

Disclaimer: I love these characters, I don't own any of them, with the exceptions of Atherton the Arse and Clarissa the Confused. I am letting them run with scissors however. Do you think that may be unwise?

* * *

**Sanctum Sanctorum**

Stephen fled the Shadow Gallery, haunted by the look in Clarissa's wide eyes. He hadn't guessed at her meaning until Eric spoke so gently to her. What her experiences had been, he could imagine and the images were disturbing. He was regretting his promise to surrender Atherton to Finch when it was becoming clear to him that the senior Avery needed so much more than prison. He had nearly another day before the transfer, when Atherton took the money to fund his return to power. Stephen needed to make certain that Avery stepped into a trap to gain the cash.

His problem was he had no idea how to make certain that the old man didn't escape.

He had thought that perhaps he needed to clear his head, that the recent events had made him a damn sight too close to the problem. He had no idea where the London house was, he should have asked Clarissa, but doubted she would have told him. Her loyalties were suspect at best. True, she'd given him the idea of attacking Burlwood but she'd wanted nothing from him. She'd tried to run until the drug Eric had administered worked.. He wondered if she could be brought around to see that she was free of Atherton. It would be something if she could live free.

He was grateful for the bright morning light as dawn came over the city while he made his way to a location he'd used often in the past few years. A computer waited for him, the system carrying dual access to both the Intranet and the highly criminal Internet. He powered up the computer and sank into a chair to access his accounts. It was from here that he'd constructed his falsified history, including transit to and from the States and a record of his life there. Now he intended to look a little closer to home and see if he could find anything that might lead him to his father.

In the Shadow Gallery

Clarissa sat upon the cot, her head cradled in her hands. She felt terrible, truly sick, and she wished quite earnestly that Stephen had killed her. The cot was the only place to sit down and she fought the urge to lie down. She needed to be vigilant; she didn't dare be vulnerable if someone visited. There was no profit in weakness, Atherton said, and Clarissa was nothing if not strong. Her grandfather had seen to her upbringing personally. She huddled into herself, her body racked with chills, and tried to stay warm.

The lock clanged, indicating a visitor. Clarissa slid to her feet and backed against the wall, bracing for a fight. The door opened and the policeman entered, carrying a tray. He looked at her for a moment before looking at the tray in his hands. "Are you hungry, miss?" His voice was kind and polite, as though he meant it, but Clarissa doubted him still. He pointed toward her cot with his chin. "I will set it there for you," he said as though her silence didn't matter. "You may eat when you like, although it's hot now."

She felt her stomach roll at the thought of food. She needed to eat obviously, but her body was too unsettled. "I…can't," she said hoarsely. Her stomach seemed to gnaw on itself. "Please take it away."

He set the tray down, lifting his eyes to her with an expression she hadn't ever seen before. It wasn't the open leering of the Elite she'd trained with, it wasn't the cool disinterest that Atherton gave her, nor the confusing expression in Stephen's eyes. It was somehow warm and concerned, making her look away in confusion. "Aren't you feeling well?" His voice was gentle.

"I…" She swallowed against the lump in her throat. "I've no appetite for anything from my gaolers," she lied.

"Is that so?" He set the tray down. "I regret that there is no silver, miss, but I made certain that everything was small enough to be bite sized." The voice had cooled slightly and she risked looking at him. He had set down the tray and was backing toward the door.

"Wait," she heard herself say, the single word panicked. He hesitated, lifting his eyes to her's again. "I don't want…" She hesitated, unable to say the rest of the words, horrified at her own weakness. He nodded.

"I will sit in the hall," he promised. "By the door. If you would like to talk to me, I will listen and answer. If you just want silence, you will know that someone is nearby." He glanced around. "I imagine the solitude is wearing on you a bit."

"Will I be kept here long?" she asked as he reached the door. She did not want him to leave, even though he promised to wait outside the cell. He shook his head.

"It isn't what Stephen wants for you, miss. He hopes to capture Atherton and see him prosecuted for his crimes. When that is done, he wants to see you free to live a life of your own."

She bit back that bile that rose in her throat, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. "Atherton will not bargain for me."

The man shrugged. "Good." The serious tone of his voice sobered her. "As you aren't being offered to him, that won't matter." He gestured to her tray. "Please try to eat," he said encouragingly. "Regain your strength. You are safe here."

He stepped outside the door and the lock clanged again. Clarissa went to her knees, arms wrapped around her waist as she gasped for air, her cell suddenly too small. She knelt for a long time, blindly staring at the door. Slowly she crawled toward it, listening for some sign of the man's presence. A scent reached her, the rich scent of pipe smoke. She closed her eyes, ridiculously grateful for the knowledge she was not alone.

Some time later, Stephen came back along the corridors of cells, to find Eric sitting on the floor, a pipe in his hand. He lifted a brow at the older man. Eric smiled up at him. "Hello, Stephen."

"Might I inquire as to what you are doing?" the younger man asked.

"Keeping your niece company." There was a small sound from inside the cell, someone moving away from the door. Eric shook his head. "She knows you're here now."

"I want to see her." Stephen shed his weapons, leaving them beside Eric. "Will you keep watch for me?"

"Certainly." The door was unlocked and Stephen stepped inside. Clarissa was in her usual place in the corner, watching her uncle enter with wary eyes. "Good day to you, Clarissa." He said stepping over the threshold. He winced mentally at the look on her face. "How are you feeling?"

"Do you really care?" she asked bitterly.

"I do, else I would not have asked."

"I feel ill," she complained grudgingly. "You brought me here against my will, Stephen. You have no idea of who I am or what I may require. I want out of this prison."

"I am certain that you would rather be free, Clarissa." He leaned against the wall beside the door. "I cannot begin to guess what hold Atherton has over you. He is my father and I hate him. What do you feel?"

She frowned, pressing against the wall. "I am…in his debt." She looked away. "I should never have spoken to you."

"You were planning on vanishing, leaving him to face me, let me do the dirty work?"

She looked up, eyes glittering hatefully. "Hardly. I cannot bite the hand I feed from. But then you have no such issue, do you, Stephen? A Fingerman trained and blooded, you hunted your own through the streets. What does loyalty mean to you, who has none?" She barked a laugh, the sound bordering on hysteria. "Atherton knew it was either you or Evelyn when Creedy's neck was broken. He believed my father was loose and insane after the events in Larkhill." She wrapped her arms around herself. She shook so badly that her teeth rattled. She laughed again. "You should have killed me, Stephen, when you had a clear shot."

"You are my brother's child."

"As though family ever meant anything to an Avery." Clarissa scoffed. "Atherton sent his family to blackbag, you sold Evelyn out by becoming a Finger, then turned on the rest of them for the sake of your revenge. What does family matter to any of us?"

"Yet you stayed with Atherton."

"Ah, but I didn't tell him it was you. I wanted to. I could have. I actually looked forward to the next beating, knowing that he hadn't a clue that his dutiful son, his Fingerman, was making mock of all he held dear." She sank down the wall weakly. "I should never have come to see you. It was my stupidity that led me into this mess." She shook her head, the motion fretful. "So much kinder if you'd just killed me."

He approached her then, his face grim. The moment he touched her, his expression changed to concern. "You are feverish."

"No," she spat. "I'm dying." He searched her eyes, his expression darkening.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded. "You are simply overwrought, exaggerating..."

"I am dying, you idiot. Atherton keeps me drugged with a toxin. So long as I get the antitoxin, I live. If I fail him, I don't get my doses and I die." Clarissa laughed manically. "You just moved up my timetable a bit."

"How long?" He shook her lightly. "How long before the toxin takes effect?"

She sagged in his grip. "Does it matter?" she said wearily. "I told you before that I didn't mind dying."

"How long?" he demanded, shaking her lightly. She forced her eyes open.

"I've never tested the limit," she gasped. "I don't know. It was the fail-safe, Stephen. Dr. Stanton said we were too dangerous to be let loose on the world without something to rein us in." She clutched his arms, staring up at him. "You know how this feels, don't you? I want it to be over. Let me go." They both knew she was not speaking of his hold on her. Stephen shook his head.

"Where is it kept, the antidote?" he asked urgently. "What toxin are you taking?"

"I don't know."

"I cannot let you go back to Atherton," he raged. "You cannot continue serving him as a whipping boy for my actions."

"Then let me die, Stephen." She closed her eyes, her grip on him faltering. "To die, to sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream…" Consciousness faded and Stephen called out urgently for help.

It became a matter of taking her to the nearest casualty, Eric and Evey managing the transportation.

Stephen champed at the bit, not liking the situation but helpless to change it. He had no way of getting the necessary blood work done in the Gallery and his face was too well known to pass unnoticed in London as Fingermen might be anywhere. He carried Clarissa out of the Gallery until Eric took her from him. "I have her," the Inspector said gently then turned away as Evey kissed Stephen.

"We'll find the curative," she promised. "Whatever it takes."

"Come back soon," Stephen said softly. "I want you safe in the Gallery as soon as possible."

At the medical center Clarissa lay pale and still in the hospital bed.

Blood work was being run as quickly as the laboratory technicians could force them through but the wait seemed to last forever. Eric sat beside the bed while Evey paced. He looked exhausted, one hand resting on the unconscious girl's hand, his thumb running over the soft skin repetitively. Evey noticed his actions, her frown curious.

"Are you alright, Eric?"

He registered the question after a few seconds. "What?" Looking down at the hand under his, he sighed. "I haven't been at someone's bedside for a long time," he confessed. "Not since…" He withdrew his hand from the girl's and rubbed at his face wearily. "Unpleasant memories, Evey."

"Oh." Evey came round the bed and laid her hands on his shoulders. "It should be over soon, Eric. They'll figure out the toxin…"

Eric nodded but felt little hope. Taking the girl from Burlwood had been the only choice they could make once they'd known what she was suffering there. To find that the old man had her chained to his side chemically made Eric's skin crawl. Small wonder she'd been unable to eat.

The door to their private room opened, interrupting the quiet. A older man in a white coat that was as pristine as his hair entered the room, taking in the scene. He smiled at them. "I hear we have a sick girl here," he said genially.

"We are waiting for her test results," Evey replied anxiously. "Has there been any progress?"

The newcomer held up a sheaf of papers. "The toxicology reports came back conclusively. She has some interesting anomalies in her blood work, a toxin in her system that appears to be causing the symptoms that brought her here. We've formulated an antitoxin to negate the effects." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a filled syringe. "We'll soon put her to rights."

Evey exhaled in relief. "Wonderful!" she exclaimed. "That's the best news we could hear!"

The doctor swabbed the inside of Clarissa's arm and slipped a needle into the vein. She shifted at the jab, murmuring, her peaceful expression turning into a scowl. The doctor rubbed the site of the injection with his thumb, watching her intently. "There you are, my girl." His voice was pleasantly reassuring.

"How long will it take to see results?" Eric asked. The older man chuckled.

"Quite quickly, I expect. She should be mobile in a few moments."

"So soon?"

"Oh, yes," the doctor said, nodding absently as he studied the papers in his hand. "Yes, this is cure for what ails her." He shook his head at the information on the pages. "Really quite ingenious, the lab technicians here at the hospital." He smiled to himself.

Eric felt a flicker of unease. Before he truly understood the cause, the door opened again. Dominic Stone stood in the opening, a stocky stranger standing at his shoulder. Dom's normally pleasant face told Eric that something had gone wrong and Eric slid to his feet, his exhaustion evaporating under a rush of adrenaline. The stranger behind him flashed a gun to Evey and Eric as he pushed his hostage into the room. As the door closed, the doctor looked over at the new arrival. "Did you manage the lab tech?"

"Yes, sir."

The old man nodded, folding the reports and tucking them into his coat pocket.

"Good work, Henri," he lauded. "Annoying to have to retrieve my granddaughter from this hospital and doubly irritating to have to eliminate all trace of her visit here. but the effort was worth it. Not only shall we have Clarissa back where she belongs, but we have Stephen's new friends: the policeman, the assistant, and the lovely Evey Hammond. It warms this old heart of mine." He shed his white coat, revealing a tailored three piece suit, and dropped the coat on the foot of the bed. "Stephen has much to answer for, seeing that he's thrown in with you lot."

"He's not with us," Eric said quickly. "We were setting him up to lead us to the Fingermen network in London."

Atherton Avery considered the policeman coolly. "That may be true," he murmured. "But he's a fool to have fallen for it if it is." Turning his attention to the girl on the bed, he pursed his lips thoughtfully. "And how did you come to have custody of Clarissa?"

"V gave her to us, of course," Eric snapped. "Asked us to have her tested here."

"Yes, well, perhaps that is the truth, Inspector, and perhaps not. I shall have the answers soon enough." He smirked at Eric. "You'll tell me everything I want to know, willingly or not, once my chief interrogator has some time with you." He looked over his three prisoners, focusing on the young woman standing behind Eric. "You've been rather a stone in my shoe," he remarked to Evey. "I shall enjoy seeing you broken."

Clarissa suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes wild and unfocused. "Father!" she cried. "Don't hurt me!"

"Silence," the old man snarled, backhanding her back against the pillows. Eric surged forward, white with rage, but the stocky man at the door leveled his gun at Eric as the old man chuckled. "What will you do, Inspector?" He dismissed Eric with a wave. "Clarissa, can you hear me?" He leaned over the bed, catching Clarissa's chin in his hand.

"Grandfather?" the girl whispered. He nodded impatiently.

"Did you see V?"

She shuddered. "Yes." The old man waited. "He is…Scarred, burned, mutilated." She grabbed the old man's arms weakly. "Please don't let him take me again." she begged pathetically. Atherton pulled away from her with disgust.

"Don't be infantile," he snapped. He regained control of himself with an effort. "So V did survive Larkhill." He tapped his lips with a narrow forefinger. "He always was the stronger of the twins. I almost regret giving Stephen an extension. Now that I have these three pawns, Stephen will fall into line perfectly and I will have the pleasure of breaking him in all over again." He chuckled again, the sound papery and evil. "Today is turning into a good day. Come, Clarissa, let us go home and teach Stephen's friends how to play well with others."

Obediently the girl slid off the bed, hesitating as she found her balance. She glanced toward Eric before turning to gather her clothes. The gown she wore gaped open and Atherton smiled when he saw the fading bruises on her back. "I will get you a few more aides, " he told the man with the gun, moving to the door. "And we'll go home."

When Clarissa returned from the in-suite, dressed in her clothes again, Henri leered at her.

"You fucked up, Clarissa," he warned her. "You remember what happens when you fuck up, don't you?"

The girl drew herself to her full height with an effort, her face impassive. "Henri," she said in a flat tone. "I have done my job. If my grandfather has any issue with my performance, he will punish me."

"And I will be the hand that serves it to you," Henri advised. "It's been a long time, Clarissa, since the last session." He grinned. "And I'm first in line this time."

"Lucky me," Clarissa retorted. "At least I can sleep through that part of it." Henri's face turned a mottled red.

"Bitch."

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" she asked disinterestly. "Oh, but then your mother probably made you pay her for that, just like the rest of her customers." Henri's eyes bulged with rage and his grip on his gun tightened until his knuckles turned white. Evey held her breath as Eric stiffened beside her. Finally Henri nodded, the terrible tension in his body easing slightly.

"Go ahead, Clarissa, dig your grave deeper. Remember that there are plenty of us who can't wait to see you in it."

"Poor Henri." Clarissa's expression was hard, her voice brittle. "Just you remember that I am Atherton's heir. If he wanted me dead, he wouldn't have come for me." She shrugged. "You may see me in my grave, Henri, but you'll never be the one to put me in it."

Henri shoved Dominic savagely toward Eric and Evey before stepping forward, his heavy fist lifting to strike Clarissa. The girl didn't flinch away from the promised blow. She spun gracefully and drove one foot into the Fingerman's belly with dead aim. Henri grunted as he leveled his gun at her, panting heavily. Clarissa stared past the gun into Henri's eyes. Nothing showed on her face, no expression at all, just her dark brown eyes full of icy disdain.

"Go ahead."

"Clarissa!" Evey gasped. "Are you insane?" Beside Evey, Eric prepared himself to rush the Fingerman, hands fisting at his sides as he tried to determine how best to attack. The brown haired girl stood her ground.

"Go ahead," she repeated coldly. "Do it. Atherton will have you in my place for it. You'll be first, Henri, and you'll follow every other Fingerman's lead in the dance." The man's hateful expression faded a little, paling at her meaning. Clarissa shook her head. "Not your cup of tea, Henri, lad?" She tilted her head a little, mockery in the taut lines of her body. "And here I always thought your tastes were...different."

The door opened at that moment and Atherton reappeared, taking in the situation at a glance. Henri lowered his gun at once, stepping back. Clarissa didn't move. Atherton closed the door behind himself and folded his arms.

"Clarissa," he said silkily. "Are you tempting a Fingerman to forget himself?" She didn't answer. Atherton reached out and seized her arm, dragging her closer. "Your life hangs in the balance, Clarissa, and you will not stack the scales. You live and die by my favor alone."

The girl met his gaze and there was a moment of silence. Finally she nodded and bowed her head. Atherton sneered at her.

"Wise girl," he mocked. "Keep your wits, child, and you may even keep your skin at the end of it all." He glanced at Henri. "We have a car waiting, Henri. Would you mind escorting our guests to the side exit? Reinforcements have arrived." He pulled Clarissa toward the door. "Come along, Clarissa. Time to go home." She went with him without a word or a backwards glance. Evey and Dom followed behind them, with Eric behind him as Henri brought up the rear.


	21. Chapter 21

Author's Note: Still nothing clever. Still sick and terribly cranky. My family has evicted me from their company until my mood improves and I am not throwing temper tantrums and sharp objects around pell-mell. Honestly, that eviction has done wonders for my temperament, lol, and I am now seated where I want to be with a sworn vow that they will leave me alone. Huzzah! Oh, this chapter's on the squicky side, people. Consider the warning carefully.

Disclaimers: Let me see, V's not mine, Evey's not mine, Eric Finch isn't mine, I never actually wanted a Dominic…. If the masters of all things V were to auction off one of the first three, I would be interested in placing a bid. Probably for Finch, simply because I really like older blokes and there is something about that fellow's face…. Okay, wishful thinking/mooning has ceased. Let the games begin.

* * *

**Over the River and Through the Woods**

Atherton ushered Clarissa into their luxury apartment, his hand firmly holding her elbow. Behind them, several Fingermen brought in Evey, Eric, and Dominic. The latter three were bound and gagged, their burly captors having little difficulty in holding them upright. Atherton turned to face Clarissa as the door closed. He studied her face for a moment, his expression neutral. With the speed of a rattlesnake, his left hand lashed out and caught her high on her cheek. The blow took her off guard, knocking her into a wall.

"Stupid girl," he snapped. "You let yourself be taken."

She straightened, her expression as emotionless as a mask. Eric made a strangled sound, trying to move forward. Clarissa didn't touch the injury. "Yes, Grandfather," she said humbly. "I was caught off guard. It will not happen again." Her voice was soft. Atherton snorted.

"If it ever happens again," he said sharply. "I will personally give you to my Elite guards as a plaything for a week. You do remember the last time that happened, do you not?"

"Yes, sir. When Parliament was razed." Clarissa lifted her chin. "I am not eager to repeat the experience."

Atherton sneered. "I should think not. You were useless afterward." Clarissa's mouth twisted slightly but she said nothing, bowing her head respectfully.

"I would like to change clothes if I may, Grandfather, before I resume my duties."

"You'll answer my questions first, Clarissa, and we will determine if you have earned a right to your place in my household." He stepped past her, stomping into the sitting room. "And bring our guests. I want to look them over."

Clarissa's face was a pale mask but for the fact that her cheek was already turning red. She spun on her heel and followed her grandfather as the three prisoners were manhandled behind her. The sitting room was beautifully appointed, not as lushly furnished as Burlwood's had been, but still elegant. Atherton poured himself a brandy and took his seat in a wing-backed leather chair. Swirling the amber liquid lazily, he studied Clarissa.

"Explain yourself."

She stood before him, hands at her sides and back stiff. "I was practicing in my playroom, Grandfather. Suddenly the man in mask was there. I tried to run, to sound the alarm, because he was between me and my weapons. He struck me with a dart, a drug of some sort. When I woke, I was in a cell." Her voice was monotone. "I had no chance to escape. When I became ill, I was ready to die. I believed I would die. I recall little else after that until I woke in hospital."

Atherton lifted a brow, an expression Stephen often used. "And you met with V?"

"We spoke, sir. He mouthed quotes from banned materials; he seemed to have no other conversation." Clarissa shook her head.

"And what of Stephen?"

"Stephen came to the place I was held, along with his friends. I heard shouting but I didn't understand their conversation."

"You heard them talking together?"

"My fath…V's voice is a half tone lower than Stephen's, Grandfather." Clarissa blinked. "One would speak and the other would shout over the first"

"You saw them together?" Atherton leaned forward. "You are certain of this?"

"When they came to my cell, V wanted to torture me for information but Stephen stopped him. He seemed to want to treat me with kindness, sir, but V called me the whore of Babylon…" She heaved a great sigh. "I was alone the rest of the time, Grandfather. I had no interaction save that one instance." Clarissa shivered. "Was Dr. Stanton positive that his madness was not in the blood?" she asked uncertainly. "He was utterly insane."

"Your examinations have proven over and over again that you are not." Atherton dismissed her concerns with a wave. "So Stephen is working with V?"

"My impressions were that he was trying to reason with V," Clarissa said, her voice strong again. "I do not think he was successful."

"Are you lying to me, Clarissa?" Atherton asked, studying his drink. "You know what happens when you lie to me." He beckoned to one of the Fingermen. "James, remind my granddaughter what penalty she must pay for lying."

James was a muscular Fingerman in black garb who stepped forward eagerly. Clarissa did not move, standing before the old man. Her back was to the prisoners but she could hear them protesting through their gags. James smirked as he moved beside Clarissa. His hand tangled in her loose hair and he dragged her to the ground onto her knees. Clarissa made no sound, keeping her eyes on Atherton. The old man's face changed as he watched, flushing with excitement. Clarissa's silence lingered as James fumbled, one-handed, with the zipper of his toursers. Atherton chuckled.

"I believe you, Clarissa," he said. James' eyes widened as Clarissa surged up from the floor. Her booted foot connected with his crotch and he fell away, his hand taking some of her hair with it. Clarissa kicked him again, this time in the ribs, as she moved to step on James' throat. One foot poised upon his neck, she smiled down at him.

"May I, Grandfather?" she asked in a light tone. "He doesn't need a voice box; he never says anything of value anyway."

"Leave him be, child." Atherton shook his head. "He should live with his disappointment, don't you think?"

She lifted her head. "He shouldn't live," she said flatly. "But if you still want him, I will relent." She spun away from the prone Fingerman and returned to her place before Atherton. "How else may I serve you, Grandfather?"

Atherton waved a hand carelessly. "I will need your help with our prisoners," he said. "Be a good girl and change clothes, Clarissa. Wear the black for me, won't you?" As she turned to go, he called her back for a moment. "And do be quick, my girl. We only have a few hours." Clarissa nodded, her eyes turning toward the three hostages for a moment. A shadow chased across her face then she was gone.

Eric turned his head to glare at Atherton, thinking just how much he would give for one of V's knives and ten minutes alone with the old bastard.

Atherton leaned back smugly as his Fingerman got up off the floor. "James, you are dismissed," he remarked as though nothing had happened. His attention turned to Evey, a smile spreading over his face. "So, Evey Hammond, your presence is of the most interest to me. I know that you were V's prisoner for a time, yet now you are Stephen's mistress. I find that fascinating. Which one do you prefer? Was V capable of intercourse? Dr. Stanton thought they had effectively castrated him but I must admit I wondered if she merely indulged me with that tidbit. Jack, remove the trollop's gag. I can see in her eyes that she has something to say."

Jack obeyed and Evey jerked away from his hands. "You filthy, despicable old prick," she shouted. "What a fucking monster you are! You hit her for no reason, you would have had her raped right here…!"

Atherton's face registered surprise. "No," he disagreed. "That wouldn't have been rape, Ms. Hammond. Perhaps while you are with us, I can educate you as to the difference." He smiled as he watched horror dawn in her eyes. "Now, do tell me: was V capable of intercourse? Is Stephen simply better than his brother?"

Evey flushed. "I won't answer you."

Atherton chuckled. "Oh, yes, you will." He sighed. "Everyone breaks at some point, Ms. Hammond." His attention wandered to Eric. "And Inspector Finch, you do realize that you are a traitor to the party? Pity we no longer employ the proper method of dealing with traitors. I would dearly love to see someone drawn and quartered. I honestly would prefer that to the more mundane bullet or poison." He gestured to Jack, who promptly removed Eric's gag. "Have you any explanation for your behaviour?"

"I was sick of the party long before V came on the scene, Mr. Avery. I was glad that Sutler and Creedy got the ends they deserved. If V finds you in the city, you too will suffer the same ignoble death." He smiled coldly. "How does it feel to know your own son thirsts for your blood as much as you thirst for his?"

"He is doomed to disappointment." Atherton smirked. "I have made my precautions carefully. Every Elite currently in the city is under this roof, at my beck and call. Even my darling Clarissa is trained well. I doubt she will be willing to allow herself to be caught out again. If she is, she best be certain that V kills her indeed, or she will find herself the sole dancer in a waltz with every member of the Elite. After the last time, she will not be willing to go through that again. She was indisposed for weeks after. It was most inconvenient."

Eric choked at the thought. "Small wonder V is mad," he spat angrily. "Considering that you are his father."

"As I explained to Clarissa, apparently in terms you did not grasp," Atherton replied. "His madness is not hereditary. Moreso, I didn't father either of those two bastards. They were their mother's indiscretion and carried my name only because she wed me before their birth. I never could stand the sight of them." He shook his head. "Their father was some itinerant Irish cur, like your bitch of a mother, Mr. Finch."

Eric's head lifted proudly. "V and Stephen should be able to hold up their heads at the thought." He expected the blow from the Fingerman behind him and it didn't hurt at all, when he saw the hatred on Atherton's face. "They will both come," he gloated, playing on Clarissa's lies. "You've crossed the line, Mr. Avery. What will you do if they work together? Do you have enough Fingermen to take both of them on? Are you certain you're safe enough here?"

"I have you three," Atherton snarled. "Hostages to hold Stephen bound. Clarissa will slit your throats if asked; she has her own best interests at heart."

"That will not stop V." Evey said, her voice firm. "He won't care what happens to us. He'll still come after you."

Atherton heaved himself up from his chair. "Enough," he said sharply. "Jack, you others, bring them along to the room we have waiting for them." He smiled. "Clarissa will be joining us shortly."

The room in question had heavily padded walls and stank of something dark and terrifying. Each of the prisoners was fastened to a ring on one wall by a length of chain that gave them no room to move. Atherton oversaw their placement himself. While this was happening, Clarissa entered the room, wearing a form-fitting black uniform, her hair pulled up away from her face. She approached her grandfather.

"How shall I serve you?"

Atherton gestured to the prisoners. "A buffet of sorts, my girl." He laughed. "You may choose your first subject, as a reward for your loyalty."

"Thank you, Grandfather."

She considered the prisoners gravely. She hesitated over Evey, reaching out to cup the woman's chin and tilt her head thoughtfully. Atherton made a soft sound. Clarissa glanced over at him curiously.

"You want to watch her session?" she asked.

Atherton leaned forward. "I have other…obligations, Clarissa." he said regretfully.

She released Evey's chin. "She can wait then," she said slowly. "Women are never so much fun, anyway." She moved down to Dominic and laid her hand over his heart. It was beating so fast that it felt like a bird in a cage trying to free itself. He stared at her silently, the gag still in place, horror in his eyes. Clarissa turned and walked back to Eric. He met her gaze without expression. She frowned up at him, her eyes dark. She placed her hand over his heart, feeling the organ's little jump at her touch, and then nodded.

"This one," she decided. "I will begin with him."

A Fingerman unchained Finch and forced him into a chair next to a long table covered with items that gleamed with sinister intent. He was bound to the chair, his arms hooked to the arms of the chair, his legs to the chair legs, leaving him pinioned in a vulnerable position. Atherton nodded, laying a hand on Clarissa's shoulder.

"I think he's a poor choice," he advised her. "But you are the interrogator. You've chosen now. Do you think it will take you longer than a few hours to manage him?"

Clarissa pursed her lips. "Doubtful," she mused. "It rarely takes more than that in any case." She shrugged. "Send me someone in an hour and a half and I'll send back word if I've broken him." She smiled. "I know that you're eager to observe the girl's turn."

"Excellent." Atherton straightened his suit. "That will allow me to complete my preparations. I will expect your summons, Clarissa. Would you prefer I leave Jack in case…"

She shook her head. "You are too impatient," she scolded lightly. "Remember what you taught me: too many cooks spoil the soup."

Atherton nodded. "You are correct." He beckoned to his men. "Let us go and prepare a welcome for my prodigal sons."

When the door closed behind them, Clarissa stood very still. She listened intently then nodded to herself. "They've gone." She glanced over the two on the wall then back to Eric in the chair. "How long before Stephen figures out where we are? Did he give you a time limit at hospital?" she whispered.

"No." Eric answered. "He was more concerned with getting you medical help." He looked up at her as she came to stand before his chair. She looked down at him, pale but for the livid color on her cheek where she'd been hit. Eric studied the mark, frowning. "Are you badly hurt?'

She frowned then her fingers crept to her cheek. "This?" she asked. "No, this is nothing." She sighed raggedly, brows drawing together in concentration. "You were nice to me," she said softly, breaking the fragile silence. "I don't want…" She fell silent, holding his gaze. Eric smiled at her.

"I know you don't," he murmured. "But you've no choice, have you?"

"Not really, Mr. Finch." Clarissa pursed her lips, her eyes as dark as Stephen's when he was angry. She wasn't angry. There seemed to be no emotion in her at all, just a deep weariness. "If I fail to perform my office, I'll end up on the wall or taking your place."

"That's happened before."

He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until she nodded. Horror and rage rushed through him at the thought of the girl pinned in the chair as he was. She was so very young, so lovely, and the bits of her life being revealed to him so hideous that it nauseated him. What sort of madness had she lived with under Atherton's rule? Her body traded to the Fingermen as a reward for them, a punishment for her, tortured in this room with its padded walls and soundproofing where her screams were cut off from any help or hope of rescue... Small wonder that she had feared the isolation of the cell. He'd only been trapped for a few minutes now and the dread was killing him. "You don't have a choice," he told her quietly. He forced his voice to stay even. "If you don't do this, he'll make you pay."

She nodded. "I am going to hurt you," she said quietly. "I am going to hurt you a great deal." Still she hesitated, her glance going to the other two. Eric shifted in his seat, watching the girl's pale face for some sign of her thoughts. She studied Dominic and Evey carefully, her lips pressed into a tight line, and Eric realized she was reconsidering her selection.

"Hey," he said sharply, calling her attention back to him. "You chose me, remember?"

"They would buy you time." She frowned. "I could just as easily take…"

"No, you chose me. They can have their own turns later." Eric smiled at her, his eyes full of warmth and gentleness. She looked ill, her skin growing paler still. "I can hold out for as long as I must, Clarissa." She recoiled, pacing along the table fretfully. Eric looked at Evey, shaking his head to warn her not to speak, and then focused again on Clarissa.

She'd gone farther down the table as if searching for something. Eric watched her carefully adjust an item or two, straightening the instruments meticulously. He realized that she was delaying the inevitable, working up her courage to begin the torture. He wondered what she was thinking about, whether or not he should interrupt those thoughts and bring her focus back to him again. As long as she was delaying, perhaps it would be better for him to allow her the time, to put off the arrival of the promised agony... He recalled how terribly vulnerable she had been in the cell at the Shadow Gallery, how afraid of the confinement and the solitude. her trembling voice from beyond the door. This room was why, wasn't it?

"You'll talk to me, Clarissa? You won't stay silent, will you?" he asked hopefully. "I won't care about the pain if you talk to me."

"You will care," she pointed out, not looking at him. "It is paramount that you care a great deal. There will be pain, Mr. Finch, of a concentrated level rarely experienced in the world outside these walls. There will be blood and anguish before we are done here. I will be the cause of it and you will hate me for it."

"I won't hate you."

She looked at him then. "You will," she argued. "You won't have any choice."

"Right then," he said. "That makes two of us, Clarissa. I don't want this and you don't want this. Since it's unavoidable, we might as well get on with it." Sweat prickled down the back of his neck, mingling with dread. "V will come."

"Not soon enough," she muttered, staring down at the table. Her shoulders slumped wearily. She picked up a pack of cigarettes from the table, opened it, and put one between her lips. She lit it, the lighter shaking in her hand. When she exhaled a puff of smoke, she leaned against the table and stared at the choices laid out before her. She shook her head. "We will begin simply," she said at last, her voice heavy. She started back along the table, her cigarette in hand. When she reached Eric, she laid the ember of the cigarette against the tender flesh of his wrist, watching the burn appear. Eric gasped at the sharp pain, biting his lip to hold back a cry. Clarissa pulled the cigarette away and put it to her lips. It glowed as she drew on it. "I'm sorry, Eric," she whispered then held the ember to her own wrist. He cried out then, in protest, but she sighed. "We need to make time last." She put the cigarette back to her lips and inhaled deeply. "I need to buy time."

"You cannot do that!" he shouted. She leaned toward him, her eyes level with his.

"It is the only way I can pace the session," she confided. "I will mirror you and if you shout out again, I will force you to accept the gag again." She straightened. "I hope Stephen can be trusted to do what must be done." She drew on the cigarette. "We are about to begin again, Mr. Finch."

* * *

Stephen knew something had gone wrong.

It had taken Eric and Evey far too long to come back. He tried calling Eric's phone, then Dominic's, in case the younger officer had gone to his partner's assistance. He called the Casualty and got no answer. Night was falling and he couldn't bear to wait longer.

Dressing in the black costume V always wore, he slipped from the Gallery and into the world above. When he reached the Casualty, he noticed the police cars parked around the entrance. Puzzled, he studied the scene. Finally he reached into a pocket and pulled out a little electronic box. It was dark, which made him frown. He stood on the rooftop and swept the box around in a slow arc. When he faced north, the box chirped. He closed his eyes.

_Damn it._

He moved silently across rooftops, heading north, occasionally checking the little box. The chirps were coming more frequently, and the display seemed to be lightening. He mentally thanked Clarissa for her warning over the phone. He'd realized then that his friends needed to be fitted with tracking devices. He'd put them in their shoes; nestled in the heels of each shoe was a small transmitter and the little box was the key to finding them. He hurried, not knowing how much time had passed since they'd been taken, now knowing what might be happening to them if they were in Atherton's hands.

Finally the box's chirping was thin whine of continuous sound. He was close. He wondered how close, as he looked down at the apartments under him. He would have to be very cautious to discern which one was Atherton's. The old man would have a horde of Fingermen waiting for his arrival. Then he saw it, the sign he was waiting for.

On a balcony below him, a sheet fluttered from the railing, the white sheet marred by a rough V formed in red. Praying it was not a mistake; he eased his way over the roof and climbed from balcony to balcony until he came to the pennant. A paper was waiting on a small table.

V, 3 to save, 30 to kill. They are to be broken. I'll go slowly. You must be fast. C

Clarissa. Could he trust her? He clenched his teeth. He had no choice.


	22. Chapter 22

Author's Note: Am still feeling like a large lorry has run over me and keeps alternating between forward and reverse. Yic. Thank you to the reviewers who keep me from thinking that I am writing in a void. I appreciate the feedback. Love signed reviews but you people who don't have fanfiction accounts can give me feedback as well. All concrit welcomed, pored over and adored.-edited 09/15/07. This was still a wrenching chapter for me. ES

Disclaimers: I won the V-verse! Oops, sorry, typo. I do not OWN the V-verse. I am merely amusing myself and a couple of readers with this little venture. No money changes hands and I have to give back my toys at the end.

* * *

**The Darkest Hour is Pretty Bloody Dark**

**(Maybe just Pretty Bloody)**

Clarissa put out her fourth cigarette of the session, frowning over the other implements that waited for their turn. "Ah, Mr. Finch," she said regretfully. "We are rapidly running out of time."

She looked at him then, gauging his condition carefully. Eric waited, lips pressed together in pain. Although he was sweating profusely, his eyes wild as he looked up at her, he had managed to withstand her persuasive arguments and remained silent. Someone on the wall was sobbing softly, either Evey or the young man, but Clarissa's whole attention was on the policeman in the chair.

He'd been good so far, she thought distantly. No more cries, even though she put him through his paces. Her arms ached from the burns that mirrored his, her hands were icy from shock and stress, a shadow of what the man had endured. "Are you ready to continue?"

He licked his lips. "I'm thirsty," he whispered roughly. "Please?"

She hesitated. "You'll be sick," she warned. He shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes and the salty perspiration made him wince and blink rapidly.

"I've...stood it," he gasped. "And I'll stand...more, Clarissa, just…Water?"

She poured a cup from the ewer on the table and brought it to him, placing the cup at his lips carefully. He sipped greedily forcing her to withdraw it. "Slowly," she cautioned. "Too much would prove disastrous, Mr. Finch." He nodded. She offered him the cup again when she was certain he could tolerate it. "You are very brave, you know." She laid her hand on his chest again, feeling the rapid but still steady beat of his heart. "Unfortunately I fear there will be no reprieve from the next step."

He looked her in the eye, his brown gaze full of pain but without blame. "Avery told us what would happen if you failed." She flinched from the sorrow in his gaze, averting her face.

"I had hoped that your faith would be rewarded, Mr. Finch, but he has not come." She noted his condition more closely, worried that she was pushing him too far despite her care. "I cannot stop at this point or whatever control I have over this session will be retracted."

"You have to carry on, Clarissa."

"I like the way you say my name," she whispered to him in confidence. "I would rather you were anywhere else but here, now."

"Clarissa, if I have to be here, I am glad it is with you." She looked at him, puzzled. "You aren't enjoying this," he continued. "And you are hurting too." He gave a shaky laugh. "Call me Eric, please? If Avery is going to kill me today, I want you to call me Eric."

She nodded, her eyes burning with tears she could not shed. "Eric." She whispered the name to him, her voice catching on the word.

The policeman's eyes closed, relief at war with disappointment on his face. "You've done the best you could, Clarssa. I don't blame you, I'm grateful for the time you've given me." He exhaled shakily. "I'm ready for the next step." Clarissa bent over him, her hair falling between them and the prisoners on the wall like a curtain. He opened his eyes to find her face inches from his, her brown eyes soft with grief. One slender hand touched his cheek, tracing the line of the bone lightly. He noted the angry burns on her arm, sick at the sight of them marring her skin. "I don't want you to suffer because you were helping us."

"I am supposed to break you. You aren't supposed to break me." She fanned her fingers gently through his hair, combing back the sweat-drenched curls. The sensation was so pleasurable after the pain that Eric groaned softly and leaned his head to her touch. Clarissa smoothed back his hair again, watching him with eyes that were the color of chocolate. Eric lifted his eyes to hers and stared into them, feeling her distress in his own chest. The scent of her perfume filled his senses, he longed to touch her hand and comfert her as she comforted him.

"Don't break, Clarissa," he told her. "You've done so well this long. You've taken too many risks already."

"I cannot give him any more time, Eric."

"I know. I'm ready to proceed." She still touched him with her fingers, her face filling his field of vision, and Eric forced himself to smile reassuringly. "Do what you must. I'd rather suffer than see you hurt again." She caught her breath in a silent sob, her eyes glistening with tears.

I am sorry, Eric. I am so sorry."

The door rattled and burst open to admit Henri, the Fingerman from Casualty. His narrow eyes took in Clarissa's posture and he snarled at her. "You stupid slag!" He unslung his gun from his shoulder, aiming it at Clarissa. "Step back, bitch, your granddad's gonna love this!"

She shrugged at him, drawing herself to her full height, putting her hands behind her back and tugging her sleeves down over her burns. "You are interrupting me," she said coldly. "Have you a good reason for cutting my hour short?"

"The Shepherd sent me," Henri sneered. "To check in your progress. Looks like someone's not doing their duty."

"You're impeding my work," she told him icily. "This is my workroom, Henri. I determine what is best for my session. No one does my job better." She moved to stand between the table and the door, half-facing Henri as her hidden hand passed over the items on the table beside her. "You have no idea what I'm doing..."

"Don't give me that, Clarissa," he barked. "I see through your shit. You got feelings for that piece of meat there?" He aimed his gun at Eric. "I can fix that."

"He's a provisional policeman," she said. "Well placed. Grandfather won't be pleased that you disposed of someone so valuable, Henri." The Fingerman ignored her, watching Eric's face gleefully. On the wall, Evey and Dominic hung helplessly as the scene unfolded. Clarissa picked up a blade from the selection on the tabel, her long fingers finding the steel and lifting it silently. "Henri," she said sharply. He glanced toward her automatically and she spun the weapon toward him with a sudden flick of the wrist. The blade caught him in the wrong place, on the shoulder where his thick neck rose from it, the wound instantly bloody.

Henri gaped at her, the gun swinging toward his attacker automatically as his mouth opened in soundless outrage. Clarissa froze, realizing that she'd overplayed her hand and having no alternate plan available.

The gun wavered on her for a moment then Henri choked as something silver burst through his chest. He staggered further into the room, knees buckling as he fell almost at her feet. Clarissa lifted her eyes from Henri to the figure in the doorway behind him.

She was stared into the black vacant eyes of a grinning Guy Fawkes.

Stephen had been creeping down the hallway when he heard the now-late Henri's exclamation. Clarissa's calm voice notified him to her presence in the room that Henri had begun to enter. It was a small matter to move silently behind him and drive one of V's blades into the Fingerman's back. Stephen shoved him further inside and drew the door closed. His gaze swept over Clarissa beside the table, then took in Evey and Dominic at the wall. When he saw Eric, Stephen's rage boiled over.

"Step away from the table," he ordered Clarissa. "Hands where I can see them." She complied silently. Stephen crossed the floor to stand beside Eric. "Eric, are you able to move?" he asked, putting a hand on Eric's shoulder.

"I'm chained to the chair," the officer replied wearily. "We were beginning to wonder if you were ever going to show up." The multitude of circular burns on his arms bore witness to Clarissa's handiwork.

Stephen turned toward Clarissa. "I told you that I would punish you if you hurt him."

She bowed her head. "As you will," she agreed. "When this is over. You still need me, Stephen." She made no apology, facing him without expression. "I know the rumours that circulated about V but I doubt even you can stand alone against thirty Elite." She grimaced, looking down at Henry. "Well, twenty-nine." She shrugged. "I have nothing to lose, Stephen. Either way, I won't survive…"

Eric shook his head. "We'll find the cure for the toxin," he promised. "Does...did Henri carry the keys, Clarissa?" She stooped and rummaged swiftly through the man's pockets. Eric got Stephen's attention. "She's kept your secret, Stephen; she endangered herself to do it. She's on our side."

Stephen grimaced behind the mask. "I'd hate to see what would have happened if she weren't." He examined Eric's arms, noting the careful spacing of the burns. "Are you going to be able to walk out of here?"

Eric nodded as Clarissa straightened, a key ring in hand. "I think these are the ones," she said. "He probably had orders to bring Eri…Mr. Finch to Grandfather, if he'd broken." She offered the keys to Stephen. He refused them.

"You free him, Clarissa." She bent over Eric at once, testing the keys in the locks. Her fingers shook as she tried to hurry. Eric twisted in his bonds, his fingers brushing her sleeve.

"Easy," he said softly. She glanced up, dark eyes full of tears. "Stephen came in time." She nodded, turning again to the work, fumbling from one key to another. "Too many keys, Clarissa, if you can't remember which ones work these locks." He tried to make light of it but she didn't look up.

She shook her head gravely. "I never get to touch the keys. I have to figure out which ones work…" She bent back over the locks, finally finding one that turned. "Ah." She had Eric freed a few moments later and they went to the two on the wall together. Eric helped her ease Evey and Dominic down from the wall to the floor. The younger officer was shaking when they removed his gag.

"Jesus, Eric, are you alright?" he asked. Eric shook his head.

"Not until we're out of here," he said shortly. He looked at Stephen hopefully. "Have you a plan?"

"Aside from killing everyone in the apartment?" Stephen chuckled darkly. "No, not really."

"I want Atherton," Eric said, suddenly savage. "You asked me once if I believed in Law or Justice, Stephen." He walked over to the body of the Fingerman and took the man's gun. "I know whom I serve tonight."

Stephen nodded. "Spare the bullets," he warned. "Clarissa, are you certain how many there are?" She nodded. "Where will they be stationed?"

The girl took a pad of paper from the table and sketched a diagram of the apartment. "Most will be waiting in the servants' quarters, Stephen. There will be guards at these positions around the apartment. If we take out these two on the bottom of the stairs, everyone will be armed." She looked up. "The main weapons locker is in the servants' quarters. We won't be able to get to it."

"Then every act must count." Stephen sounded grim. He looked down at Evey, where she stood beside him, her eyes adoring him. He caressed her face with his gloved fingers. "I'll get you out of here," he promised. "We have a future to plan." She smiled brilliantly at him, cupping his hand to her face.

Eric gathered himself. "We need to take out the guards first." Stephen nodded and headed back toward the hall. Clarissa stopped him at the door.

"Stephen," she said quietly. "May I borrow one of your blades?" He stiffened, the mask hiding his expression. "I can take the guards at the foot of the stairs."

"Why should I trust you?"

"You have no reason to." She shrugged. "But, while they expect to see me, they don't expect me to have teeth."

After a long moment, he offered her one of his knives. She accepted it gingerly, testing the balance. With sudden confidence, she spun the blade in her hand as he would have. "Nice." She tucked it carefully in her sleeve, revealing for a moment the burns on her own arm, then turned and led the way.

She made a great deal of noise as she stomped downstairs, grumbling under her breath about being interrupted. She paused by the two guards, glaring at them both. "Did Grandfather send that dolt upstairs?" she demanded sharply. "Which of you two permitted him to go up?"

"Mr. Avery was hoping you were ready to begin the girl's…" one replied. Clarissa interrupted him sharply.

"Not what I asked. Which of you allowed that bugger into my workroom?"

"He had proper…" She cut him off, starting to turn away. When she whirled back, the big knife was in her hand. She slit one's throat, carrying the blade to the other with a vicious thrust into the neck. The act was soundless. The falling bodies were not. Stephen and his friends hurried down the stairs, collecting the guards' guns and whatever ammunition they could find. Clarissa pointed with her chin.

"The rest will be there," she whispered. "They are likely to be edgy. Grandfather will be in his study, probably reviewing old tapes of blackbag sessions. He likes to be...ready for the real thing." She sounded tired. "I made certain that there were a few smoke grenades in the passage to the quarters."

"Good idea. Stay here with Eric and Dominic, Clarissa." As he turned away, she caught hold of his arm, stopping him.

"There are no civilians here, Stephen. Only Fingermen." She still held his knife, the bloody edge gleaming dully. "I can fight them too."

"You need to stay clear," he said. She shook her head.

"I have the many of the same skills you have," she reminded him. "And I have many of V's anomalies. You'll need me to even the odds. There are twenty-seven left. Between the two of us, we can take a large part of that away before they are ready to return fire." She waved to Eric, Evey and Dominic. "They can sweep the rest."

In the end, he had to agree.

There simply wasn't enough time to argue as a Fingerman entered the foyer. The man's face went shock white and he shouted an alarm. Stephen sent a blade into the man's chest but the alarm brought the Fingermen from their waiting. As men poured into the room, they bottlenecked in the corridor, shoving against one another and hampering any attempt at return fire.

Clarissa and Stephen moved into attack, their movements in tandem as though they'd danced to this song many times before. In moments the floor was littered with bodies but men kept coming. Stephen felt the old excitement fill him. He paid out death with each hand, not counting the ones who fell, always looking forward to the next who stood before him. Part of him registered Clarissa's movements beside him and he was impressed with her work. Atherton had trained her well.

Their attack was never meant to last. As Fingermen boiled up from the servants quarters, they began to spread out enough to return fire. Clarissa and Stephen kept fighting, ignoring the loud reports of automatic weapons firing, completely focused on their enemies.

Someone fired a round of bullets, the sound echoing in the small area. Clarissa uttered a sharp cry when the bullets struck her torso. She staggered back a few steps and went down, her knife clattering out of her hand. Dominic fired back and the gunman flew backwards. Stephen whirled to find Eric already beside Clarissa. The police inspector was assessing the damage, his hands quick upon the girl's body as he dragged her into the shelter of the stairs. The black uniform was already soaked with blood, red streaking the floor as it marked her path. Dominic fired at the last of the enemy, echoed by Evey, and the foyer was suddenly clear again.

The Inspector bent over the girl, touching her gently. "Clarissa?" Eric whispered, his tone urgent. "Clarissa?" After a moment, she roused, her puzzled expression fading into a smile of recognition.

"Eric." There was bright blood on her lips. "I'm sorry."

"You did what you had to do." He bent over her, searching her face. "We'll get you help, Clarissa, just hold on."

She gasped jerkily. "You were...very brave, Eric." She lifted a hand to touch his face but it fell away before it reached him, her body going limp. Eric gestured to Dominic.

"Protect her," he ordered harshly. "It's Atherton's turn." With a look toward Stephen, he and the masked man entered the study.

Atherton was seated in his leather chair, his snifter of brandy in his hand. The old man looked up when the door opened, cynically evaluating the figures. Lifting his glass, he toasted them mockingly.

"So the prodigal returns," he said.

The white mask, it's jolly smile a travesty, bobbed as the enigma V nodded. "You were expecting me." Atherton flinched at the sound of his voice. "And yet, there is no fatted calf, no celebratory feast prepared." V bowed with a flourish. "I might have thought you did not care that I had come home."

"Evelyn, I somehow always thought it would be you." Atherton chuckled. "Beat Stephen to the punch again?"

Stephen lifted his mask and the caul beneath it. "Not quite, Father."

"Stephen?" The old man frowned. "But... Where is V?"

"Dead, Father. More than eighteen years ago." Stephen shrugged.

Atherton snorted. "So the little bitch lied." He didn't sound surprised. "Clever of her."

"Such affection you have for your granddaughter, Father." Stephen's hands rested lightly on his blades.

"She was a means to an end," Atherton pointed out. "Nothing more. At the least I can be comforted in the thought that one of you bastards died, Stephen, and my efforts weren't a complete waste of time." He shook his head. "You'll get no vengeance on me; I made my plans a long time ago." He winced. "I won't be trotted out in some kangaroo court for the provisional government to use as a death knell for Norsefire."

"No?" Stephen stepped toward his father, his expression hard. "And what do you intend, Father, sitting here in your bunker? A gentlemanly bullet in the head? An honourable end to a dishonourable life?"

"Don't mock me." Atherton grimaced as he sipped his brandy. "I served my country's best interests, Stephen. I brought England back to the height of her power and reclaimed our birthright. There is nothing that your ridiculous provisional government can do to blot out the power of Norsefire and the inheritance I have built for our country."

"Built upon the bodies of the innocent!" Stephen strode forward. "Murdering nearly 100,000 people to make the nation afraid of an imaginary threat, slaughtering how many more under Creedy's black bags, creating a reign of terror, does not make you the hero of the people!"

"Norsefire brought back England's glory." Atherton drained his glass. "I designed Sutler's campaign, plotted out his every move so that the British Empire would rise to be the world power it was before politicians with limited views smothered her under the ideologies of passivity and weakness. I created Norsefire, boy, and my creation lives on, despite your plans to the contrary."

"Norsefire is dead." Atherton snorted at Eric's interjection.

"Keep telling yourself that, Inspector. Perhaps one day you'll come to believe it." A shudder wracked Atherton's body. "And perhaps one day you'll realize you were wrong." He arched in his seat, his body convulsed into rigor once before sagging sideways lifelessly.

Silence fell over the room. Eric looked at Stephen and then back at the body. The man with the mask seemed to shrink a little as his anger faded away. "It's over, Stephen. He's dead."

Stephen shook his head. "But his legacy still lives, Eric." he said sadly. He dropped the mask upon the floor and left the study with Eric beside him.


	23. Chapter 23

Author's note: Well, here is Chapter 23, added after the fact, to tie up the loose ends. Those of you who remember the original posting may recall that this was actually located in a shorter form at the end of Chapter 22. With the edit I have performed on the entire story, I really felt that this chapter needed to be set apart and expanded to give the whole thing a proper sendoff. I have enjoyed the writing of this tale and this edit gave me the opportunity to revisit my storyline. I hope that you have enjoyed this story as much as I have. Thank you for reading. I appreciate everyone who commented and I hope that others who read this will call out to tell me if they approved or not. Thank you all. Best Wishes from EnigmaSphinx.

Disclaimers: Months after finishing this story, all I can say is this: I still do not own V or the V-verse. I write my little fantasies as hommage to the wonderful characters created by others and in the vain hopes of creating a little more enjoyment for those of us who really wanted the original to go on.

* * *

**Dawn**

Hours later:

Stephen sank into the seat beside Evey and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. He wished that he could forget the strain of the past few days but there were still loose ends. Shortly after Atherton's demise, the police arrived and took over the scene.

Eric managed to help Stephen conceal himself from being discovered as V or from being questioned as anything other than another victim of the elder Avery's madness.

Paramedics swarmed after the police, searching out the survivors of the fight. Atherton had been declared dead on scene. Clarissa's injuries were so severe, she was immediate transported to the nearest hospital. He could still see Clarissa's body being taken out of the apartment on a stretcher, the paramedics working on her desperately as she was rushed to a waiting ambulance.

The police had a grasp on the aftermath at the apartment. Stephen and Evey followed the ambulances to the hospital in a police car, riding in tense silence with Eric while Dominic remained at the scene to command the provisional police. Now he and Evey waited for word as the hospital waiting for word on Clarissa's condition. "It's over?" Evey asked him again, leaning against him comfortingly. Stephen nodded, his face lined.

"Atherton took his own life," he said. "I didn't have to kill him, for which I am grateful." He was still dressed in black, having left his cloak and knives in Eric Finch's borrowed police car. He had one hand around Evey's waist, holding her close. "I don't know what I would have done if Clarissa had started with you instead of Eric."

"She tried to protect you, Stephen. She lied to Atherton, even when he threatened her." Evey shivered. "Her life with him had to be hell."

"If she was a trained torturer, I don't understand why she didn't take Dominic, he seemed the least prepared to withstand…" Eric's arrival cut Stephen off. The policeman's face was haggard, his arms wrapped with bandages. He looked at Stephen hopefully.

"Any word?" he asked. Stephen nodded.

"Atherton's body was transported to the coroner…" Eric pulled a face.

"Clarissa?" he specified.

"Nothing yet." Stephen frowned. "Your burns, Eric? I regret that I did not find you before…"

"Clarissa did her best to hold off, Stephen." Eric shook his head. "She had no choice but to begin." Eric scrubbed his face with one hand. "What a bloody day this has been."

A man in surgical scrubs appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Avery?" At Stephen's nod, the man extended a hand. "I am Doctor Hendricks. We have finished repairing the damage to your niece and she is in recovery." He was joined by a another doctor, this one a matronly woman whose kind eyes were shadowed with concern. "This is Doctor Barnes, who agreed to assist me during the surgery."

"Clarissa... How is she?" Evey laid a hand on Stephen's arm as he asked the question, squeezing gently to remind him that he was not alone. He covered her hand with his, grateful for her presence. Dr. Hendricks hesitated.

"We seem to have covered everything, Mr. Avery. Clarissa's injuries were grave, but her youth and her excellent physical condition have served her well. When the bullets penetrated her body, they tumbled, causing a path of destruction that might have proven fatal to another person in less than peak condition. She had a collapsed lung, her bowel was perforated in several places, and several of her ribs were broken. There was some damage to several major organs as well as some bits of shrapnel in her torso but we've repaired as much of the damage as we could surgically."

Evey sucked in a sharp breath. "But not all?" she interjected. "There was damage that you didn't repair?"

"There were some...complications, Miss." Hendricks eyed Stephen curiously. "Your niece seems to have had quite a difficult time in her life, Mr. Avery."

"Clarissa was abused under the previous government, Doctor. I have only recently recovered her from the...group she was raised by."

Doctor Barnes frowned, her expression pained. "Was she in some sort of facilty?" she asked softly. "There are some issues that, well...to be frank, Mr. Avery, she seems to have been badly treated."

"I explained to the nurse who registered Clarissa's arrival here that my niece was being given a toxin to insure her obedience, Doctor. Wereyou able to counteract the poison?"

The woman hesitated. "She had a device implanted in her abdomen that we were able to remove. I think,...After examining the item thoroughly, the mechanism seems to have served two functions. It was the source of a steady delivery of the toxin you warned us about." She shook her head. "Now that it has been removed and the residual poison in her system has been neutralized, she should suffer no lingering effects from it."

"You said that it served two purposes?" Evey asked softly. Doctor Barnes looked down at the file in her hands and nodded.

"What is it?"

The doctor frowned. "May I speak to you privately, Mr. Avery?" Stephen stood very still, his dark eyes anxious.

"We are her family, Doctor. Ms. Hammond is my fiancee and Chief Inspector Finch is a longtime friend of the family. Whatever you have to say can be said to us all."

Dr. Barnes nodded. "Very well, then. It appears that the secondary system of the device released a steady stream of contraceptive. If your niece wishes to become sexually active, she will require another form of birth control. During our examination of her injuries, there were physical signs of old trauma in many places, injuries consistent with sexual battery and abuse." She shook her head. "I regret to inform you of this, Mr. Avery, but I would have to surmise that your niece has been badly abused over a long period of time. She may well need counseling in order to adjust to a normal life."

"Whatever she needs to help her heal," Stephen assured the doctor woodenly. "I will provide for her." He trembled under Evey's hand. "Will we be able to see her?"

"Not until she is in a room, Mr. Avery. It will likely be a few hours yet."

"Thank you, Doctor Barnes, Doctor Hendricks. I will remain here until then." The doctors left them and Stephen was silent, staring at the floor. Evey looked up at him with concern.

"Stephen?"

When Stephen looked into her eyes, she could see the conflict in his face, his grief at war with his rage. "If I could kill him twice, I would. I swear, Evey, my father was a monster."

She reached up to touch his face, smoothing the lines that bracketed his mouth. "He's dead, Stephen. Let him rot in his grave. Now is the time for healing, not just for Clarissa but for you as well."

Stephen brushed away the tears that were gathering on her cheeks. "It will be a long road, Evey." He glanced at Eric. "Will the police be taking Clarissa into custody?"

"She wasn't part of the report, Stephen." Eric replied. "Neither Dom nor I will say anything about her involvement." He gingerly tucked his hands into his pockets. "She acted under duress. She didn't want to do the things she did but the threat could not be ignored or resisted."

"I have to see to her recovery." Stephen said hollowly. "I will not abandon her now." He swayed slightly and Evey led him to a chair. "I've money enough for whatever she needs to heal. I don't know that she'll accept it, but I need to… I need to help her." He covered his face in his hands. "Oh, God, I don't know what they did to her for certain, but I can guess." He sounded sick.

"She's strong." The older man choked as he said it. "She'll survive this."

"He was her grandfather, Evey. He should have taken care of her, not allowed her to be brutalized!"

Evey put her arms around Stephen, pulling him close. "There is something I need to tell you," she said gently. "Atherton said that you and V were not his children, that your mother married him before you were born but you weren't his." She stroked his shoulder. "I don't know if that makes things worse or better, but it was what he said before he took us upstairs. Atherton Avery wasn't your father and he wasn't Clarissa's grandfather either." She looked into his eyes. "I love you and it makes you no different in my eyes, Stephen. I love you as much now as I ever have."

It took him a few minutes to process what she said but when it sank in, he pulled her onto his lap, folding her in his arms. Burying his face in her neck, he shook against her. "Oh, thank God," he said sincerely. "The thought of carrying his blood…" He rested his head on her shoulder. "Oh, Evey, thank you."

When Stephen lifted his head from Evey's shoulder, his eyes were bright. "Evey, my sweet, when I left you in the train station, I thought my life was over. Tonight, you've given it back to me again for the second time. They say if you save someone's life, you own them." He brushed back an errant lock of her hair. "Not that you haven't owned me from the moment you maced poor Dominic, mind." She smiled at him, remembering. "Will you marry me, Evey?"

She gasped, her eyes widening. "Oh, yes, Stephen, I will." She wrapped her arms around him. "I love you, no matter what life brings. I've loved you since forever, it seems."

"We'll look to the future together, Evey," Stephen said, cradling her. "Whatever it brings."

* * *

Eric wandered away from them to stand by the doors that the doctors had gone wondered how Clarissa would react to the knowledge that Atherton had no claim to her anymore. He hoped that it gave her some comfort.

She was brave, he thought to himself. She was strong. Surely she hadn't endured the hell she'd gone through and joined forces with Stephen just to lose her life while standing on the very threshold of the freedom she deserved.

His arms tingled under the bandages and he closed his eyes. Clarissa carried the same marks he did, she'd matched him burn for burn without faltering... He shivered at the memory of her fingers in his hair, her voice whispering his name, and he hoped that she was strong enough to survive.

* * *

The coroner stepped into the morgue freezer, his clipboard in hand. He moved among the gurneys, looking for the one on his list. Checking the toe tag, he put a check by the name of the deceased.

"Ivan, let's get this old geezer on the table. Once we've done the prelims, we can get to some lunch." There was no answer. The coroner shook his head. "Ivan!" He heard a footstep behind him and sighed. "C'mon, mate, let's get this over with."

"Yes," said a strange voice. "Let's, shall we?"

The coroner started to turn toward the unrecognized speaker in surprise but something struck the back of his head with great force. As he fell to the ground numbly, his vision dimming, he saw two bare feet swing over the edge of the gurney, dangling for a moment with the toe tag in place, before easing to stand solidly upon the concrete floor before his stunned gaze. He could just make out the name on the tag and it meant something to him, something that skittered through his fading senses wildly before vanishing into confusion.

Avery, A.

Then his vision went black.

Finis

VEV


End file.
